


The Devil's Blaze

by DulcimerGecko



Series: The Devil's Blaze [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animal Death, Awesome Molly Hooper, Awesome Sally Donovan, Bad Puns, Blow Jobs, But shit will hit the fan several times first!, Case Fic, Coitus Interruptus, Condoms, Continental Drift Slow Burn, Cowboy John, Cowboy Sherlock, Cowboy!John, Cowboy!Sherlock, Cowboy!lock, Cowboylock, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drunk Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Horses, It's For a Case, John is a Horndog, Lies, Like...glacially slow burn, M/M, Masturbation, Mystery, Pool & Billiards, Puns & Word Play, Rodeo Clowns, Rodeolock, Rodeos, Safer Sex, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Sexy Butts in Jeans, Sherlock Being A Manipulative Bastard, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Texas, Vet John, WIP, broncos, line dancing, rodeo!lock, very slow burn, vet!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 246,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Equestrian Expert, is the individual called when horse owners are out of their depth.  At the behest of his elder brother, Sherlock travels to Amarillo, Texas, to investigate why a valuable bucking stallion has seemingly gone berserk for no reason and killed his trainer.  The local authorities suspect the owner of fraud and possible animal abuse, but Mycroft sees parallels to an unsolved case from the 1980s wherein a racehorse killed a groom. Complicating the situation is John Watson: bronco rider, rodeo veterinarian and one of case’s primary suspects…</p><p>Or, to put it another way: Rodeolock AU!  Sherlock Holmes and John Watson running around Texas, USA in cowboy boots, Wranglers blue jeans and cowboy hats. 'Nuff said.</p><p>  <b>WIP: tends to update roughly once every two to three months.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts).



> Special thanks to the wonderful people that have helped me thus far: [PoppyAlexander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander) for the rodeo AU prompt and initial feedback, my wonderful, witty betas, [iriswallpaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper) and [Vulgarweed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed) for their sharp eyes and attention to detail, [Shayvaalski](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski) for kindly answering a slew of random horse questions, and finally the lovely, lovely folks over at [The Antidiogenes Club](http://antidiogenes.tumblr.com/) for being an encouraging bunch when I'm frustrated and muttering dire things at my computer.

~*~

_Tri-State Fairgrounds_  
 _Amarillo, Texas_

The silent parking lot resembled something out of a zombie movie, one of the horrible scary ones that her ex-boyfriend had enjoyed, Molly decided as she hurried across the open space, the rapid tap of her cowboy boots sounding abnormally loud in the pre-dawn hush. As she walked, Molly nervously scanned the area for potential threats with the ease of long-born habit, paying close attention to the patches of darkness. The flickering orange and green glow of the parking lot's few fluorescent lamps painted everything with an eerie half-light. It was a surreal blend of colours that cast odd shadows where none were, confusing the eyes and disorienting the senses. 

The cars, trucks and crowds that had packed the space for the last ten days of festivities were gone. In their wake they'd left broken glass, trash and the odd plaid shirt. A few scattered vehicles remained bordering the parking lot's edges. Most of them belonged to either ranch hands or fairground staff. By the end of the morning those too would be gone, their owners summoned to fulfill other obligations. _Kenopsia,_ Molly's mind suddenly supplied, putting the feelings into words. _The forlorn atmosphere of a previously-busy place gone silent_.

A sudden gust of cold air rushed in, bringing with it the smell of diesel exhaust, livestock, and dust. It tore across the dark parking lot, whipping up dust devils with dragging trash and the occasional tumbleweed in its wake. The detritus skittered across the cracked asphalt. The rattle and scrape of empty aluminum cans were joined by the irregular, bouncing thump of oversized Styrofoam cups that had previously contained sodas or other smuggled-in beverages. 

Shivering, Molly pulled her denim jacket more closely around her slight frame, blinking her eyes against the wind-whipped grit. She spared a wishful thought for the new hand-knit, cherry-printed cardigan she'd bought as a treat for herself and promptly packed away in her suitcase for safe keeping. Spring in the Southwestern United States could be unpredictable. Mild, sunny days could easily give way to scorching temperatures or violent storms with strong, gusting winds.

Such as the monster looming in the southwest. 

Thunder rumbled in the distance, an ominous rolling sound that heralded the storm's approach. Alerted by the noise, Molly paused and turned to look over her right shoulder at the lighting-flecked clouds on the horizon. She absently reached up and tucked a wind-whipped strand of hair back behind her right ear. Her expression was intent, a small furrow appearing between her eyebrows as she watched the storm. 

Growing up in the middle of Tornado Alley had given her a lifetime's worth of experience as an amateur meteorologist. It also made her leery of relying solely on the weather reports. Professional forecasters—no matter how well-intentioned—were prone to exaggerating possible scenarios in the ever-constant bid for better ratings. Early-morning storms were rare but if the professionals' predictions were to be believed, strong, gusting winds, large-sized hail, flash floods and the potential for tornadoes were all possibilities over the next few hours. Molly blew out a breath as she analyzed the clouds, reluctantly concluding that in this case the local forecast predictions were probably accurate. 

All the more reason to get a move-on, then.

With a grimace at her watch face, Molly walked faster towards her intended target, paying careful attention to where she placed her boots. The complicated shadows on the ground made it difficult to spot the tripping hazards that dotted the cracked and fissured pavement, and the last thing she needed was a broken or twisted ankle. A few moments later she was standing in front of her destination: a large, highly-polished black 4x4 diesel pickup in the far northwest corner of the lot. It was a decent location, close enough to take advantage of the electrical and plumbing hookups, but far enough away to guarantee the inhabitants a bit of privacy. 

Biting her lower lip, Molly reached up, tentatively tapping on the door of the small, white camper hitched to the back. "Joe? Hello?" she called. "It's Molly Hooper," she continued, pitching her voice slightly louder. "Umm…Are you up?" 

Molly glanced over her shoulder, looking east to where the deep black of the star-studded Texas sky was starting to give way to the creeping indigo and pink shades of the morning's false dawn. Swallowing hard, she tapped on the door again, slightly louder this time. "It's almost four-thirty a.m.," she continued, her tone anxious. "You're…um late…The boss wants to get Blaze and the rest of the stock loaded up and back to the ranch before six because there's a storm on the way. She sent me over here to find you, since you weren't at the stock trailers…"

The camper's tiny windows remained dark.

Glancing at her watch, the young woman bit her lower lip again and rapped on the camper door twice more before giving in and trying the handle, fully intending on rattling it and banging on the door to awaken the occupant. To her surprise, it turned easily. "Joe?" she called out, resting her left hand against the camper's side. "Are you decent? You'd better be! The door's unlocked, so I'm coming in!" She pulled the door open, waiting for a moment to see if there would be a bellow of outrage before she actually entered. Hearing nothing, Molly reached inside and toggled the light switch, illuminating the tiny space and the empty bed within. 

With a huff of annoyance, Molly took in the tidily-made bed and the lack of dirty clothes on the floor. An unopened string of condoms lay on the bedside shelf but there was no accompanying wallet, keys or pack of cigarettes. "Umm…okay," Molly breathed out softly as she finished surveying the space. "So you obviously didn't sleep here last night. That's fine…you're a handsome man…" She rubbed an index finger across her lower lip. "Maybe you're already in the barns, getting the animals ready?" she murmured aloud to herself. "Oh I hope so…" she muttered with another annoyed glance at her watch. 

Shutting the door firmly behind her in defiance of the gusting wind, Molly strode off in the direction of the sheet-metal buildings that housed the fairground's stalls. The surface changed as she walked, the cracked asphalt readily giving way to loose gravel and bare dirt. The occasional dried twig crackled under Molly's boots as she hurried, her strides rapidly crossing the open space despite her short stature. 

Kimble stall barn #1 was empty save for another female ranch hand. The other woman stopped mucking stalls long enough to send Molly a quick, cheerful wave, her round, Mexican features set in an ebullient grin, thick braids swinging in tandem with her movements as she sang softly to herself in Spanish. Molly waved back but didn't stop to chat. Instead, she let herself out the double doors and quickly crossed to the entrance of Kimble stall barn #2. Inside it was warm and quiet. Some of the overhead lights were lit, hinting that somebody had come through the building recently. At the sound of her footsteps a few of the more curious horses stuck their noses over the gates of their stalls. They whickered greetings at her presence, seeking attention and treats. 

"Sorry, sorry!" Molly whispered as she hurried past, resisting the urge to pet noses and rub ears. "Much as I'd love to stay and admire you all, I don't have time." With an apologetic air, Molly hurried down the aisle to where the horses from the Triple C Ranch were housed. 

There were twenty of them, mingling together in a temporary paddock. The majority of them were sleeping, their gleaming dun brown, black and grey grullo coats bunched tightly together for comfort, as much as for protection. Hearing her approach, one of the horses, a beautiful red sorrel mare wandered over, nickering softly as she crossed to where Molly stood, balanced on the rails of the temporary pen. 

Molly spared her an affectionate ear rub as she took note of the lack of fresh feed: mute testament that no other employees from the Triple C ranch had visited them yet. _Drat_. She was about to leave when a flash of movement and a vaguely familiar hat in the far corner caught her eye. "Doctor Watson?" she called, hopping off the fence and hurrying to where the short vet was running a palm gently over the neck of a sleepy-looking white and grey dappled Appaloosa.

The vet looked up in surprise, obviously caught off guard by her approach. He squinted at her in the dim lighting, brow furrowed in apparent concentration before his expression changed to one of recognition. "Molly Hooper, right? From the Triple C?"

"Yes." Molly stuffed her hands into her pockets, giving the attractive man a wry smile. "That'd be me. Do you have a moment, Doctor Watson?" 

"I'm sorry," the vet apologized, his expression abashed. "I didn't recognize you at first. For you? Of course I have a moment." He gave the horse's neck one final pat before turning to face her. "And call me John, please," he added with a wink and a friendly grin. He removed his hat and ruffled a hand through his short, blond hair before redonning it and tucking his thumbs into the loops of his jeans. The movement drew subtle attention to the championship belt buckle he wore as he leaned back against the stall door. Tilting his head, John raised an eyebrow, his dark blue eyes intent on hers. "What can I do for you?" 

"Have you been here long?" Molly asked, her tone businesslike.

John blinked, his expression shifting from 'charming' to 'professional' in response to her decidedly non-flirtatious manner. He coughed, clearing his throat. "Twenty…maybe thirty minutes?" He glanced down, double-checking his estimate against the military watch he was wearing on his left wrist. "Captain Lestrade asked if I'd swing by and take a look at Scotty for him," he continued. John tilted his head sidewise to indicate the stall's occupant. "Greg said he was acting a bit spooky while patrolling the bull-riding crowd yesterday, which is unusual for a police horse." 

"Him?" Molly asked, giving the dozing Appaloosa a skeptical look. The horse in question blinked his eyes sleepily, ears twitching slowly back and forth at the sound of their voices, but otherwise not reacting.

John looked over his shoulder and gave the gelding a quick grin. "Yeah, I know. I was surprised, honestly, when Greg called me. I didn't think New Scotland Yard here even knew the meaning of the word 'spooky.' He's one of the most laid-back horses I've ever met…all that training they go through, probably. Still," John continued, his tone fond as he reached up to give the police horse another pat, "Greg and Scotty have been partners for years, and I'll trust his instincts. I'm not finding anything wrong with him, even though Greg mentioned that the sclera of Scotty's eyes looked a bit inflamed yesterday—probably a bit more noticeable, since his are white because of his breed and rather more visible than most horses, but it doesn't hurt to be careful, especially with a work horse like this one." 

Molly crossed her arms around herself and tilted her head, her expression pensive. "Captain Lestrade must have been very worried…you're up awfully early for a Monday morning."

John shook his head. "Not really. Even though I'm discharged, my brain still hasn't adjusted back to a civilian sleep schedule." He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, before giving her a self-deprecating smile. "Rather handy for a vet, to be honest…but enough about me. You look upset and you obviously aren't here for casual conversation…is something wrong with one of your horses?"

"No," Molly shook her head. "They're fine, but thanks for asking anyway." She exhaled, allowing a bit of her frustration to bleed through. "I'm just trying to find Joe Straker," she explained. "Tall, skinny black man? Head trainer for the Triple C? He's late and we've got stock to load before the storm hits. Have you seen him?"

John pursed his lips in apparent concentration. "Not since yesterday," he admitted after a few moments of thought. "I remember seeing him at the bull riding competition, though. Gossip was he'd cleaned up several grand on the Bayard/Penang bull-riding match Saturday night, and he looked pretty damn pleased with himself when I saw him leaving the bookies later."

"Oh, did you compete?" Molly asked, with a nod at the buckle on his belt, curious in spite of herself. 

John shook his head, his expression wrinkling up in disgust. "Not lately. I will if the prize's good enough, but overall I'll take a bronco over a goddamn hooker any day. I deal with enough of those when I'm working." 

At Molly's offended look, John hurried to explain, a flush darkening his fair cheeks. "Sorry, um…sorry!" His expression was chagrined as he held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "I'm not talking about women, professional or otherwise," he hurriedly clarified. "I'm talking about bulls. Horses can be damn ornery but bulls are vicious, and they seem to have gotten worse in the last few years or so. Worst that can happen with a bronco is you'll get throwed-sorry, thrown," he corrected himself, "-and maybe kicked. A hooker'll bury his horns in your ribs. My buddy Murray, he only got out of the hospital a few weeks ago after one bull got him with one of his horns and stomped on him for good measure. The rodeo clowns and bullfighters barely got him out alive."

"I see," Molly replied, her tone still slightly cool. She blew out another breath. "Right…I guess I should keep looking for Joe. If you do happen to see him, could you let him know Ms. Ross needs him at the trailers?"

"Can do," the vet promised.

"Thanks. I'll see you later, Doctor Watson." 

"Oh, Molly?"

"Yes?" She turned to look over her shoulder, dark-brown ponytail swinging.

"If you haven't already, you might check the permanent stalls in the Bill Cody building." John jerked a thumb in the direction of the fairground's main equestrian center. "I think one or two of the champion broncos may have been stabled there after there was a last-minute mix-up of some sort in one of the other barns. I overheard one of the stock contractors grumbling about it when I was stitching up a laceration in one of the heifers yesterday."

"Oh…okay." Molly tilted her head, expression puzzled. "Odd that Ms. Ross didn't mention it to me, but okay…I'll check there." With a final tight smile, Molly hurried towards the exit, leaving the warmth of the barn behind.

The wind had picked up in the brief time she'd been inside, and was gusting around fifty miles per hour. Wrapping her jacket more tightly around herself, Molly hurried across the fairground's main thoroughfare to the large building whose brick signage out front identified it as the Bill Cody Equestrian Center.

The center was almost twice as tall as the surrounding barns, giving ample space to the dirt floor arena, bleachers and expo space housed within its sheet-metal walls. Compared to the stall barns, though, the equestrian center felt decidedly unwelcoming. The perpetually-on emergency lights of the main area painted everything in dim shades of red, giving the cavernous space an ominous feel. The air was rank with the acrid odour of old cigarettes, stale popcorn and the sour tang of spilled beer. 

Wrinkling her nose in distaste at the smells, Molly shoved her way through the set of double doors that marked the hallway leading to the stalls. Only a few of the hallway's florescent lights were lit, their flickering bulbs casing a sickly green pallor over everything. Rubbing her arms briskly against the air's chill, Molly rounded the first corner, her boot heels striking the concrete floor with soft thumps.

"Joe?" Molly called out into the dimly lit space. "Are you here?"

At the sound of her voice, a stallion in the darkness up ahead suddenly let loose an ear-splitting scream and reared up, his hooves striking out at the wooden boards of the stall gate with a thundering crash. 

"What the?" Breaking into a run, Molly dashed down the corridor, skidding to a stop in front of a battered stall door. She gasped in horror at the sight of the Triple C's prize horse. The normally laid-back stallion was almost unrecognizable. His coat was saturated with lather and his mane was a tangled mess of knots. His eyes, so often half-closed when he was being groomed were wide and staring. The dark-brown irises were completely ringed by red.

Seeing her, the stall's occupant screamed again, powerful forelegs slashing at the air before striking the wooden barrier. One of the boards splintered at the impact, the sound like the crack of a .22 rifle. Molly ducked, narrowly avoiding one of the larger splinters that ricocheted past her, her eyes wide with shock. 

"Blaze?" Molly whispered, hurrying forward towards the enraged stallion: her common sense over-ridden by compassion and the need to help. "What's wron—Ahh!" she shrieked, jerking back in surprise as the horse suddenly changed direction and lunged for her, bared teeth snapping inches from her face. 

"Blaze! What's gotten into you?!" Quickly, she crossed to a nearby pole and toggled the switches that would illuminate the area better, distantly grateful that there were no other horses housed in immediate area to become frightened by the stallion's screams of rage.

Crossing back, Molly swallowed hard, her nose suddenly registering the coppery tang of blood and the stench of ruptured organs amongst the other smells cigarette smoke, manure and something that smelled a bit like burnt cloves and citronella. Mindful of the stallion's speed, Molly edged closer, pulling her pocket torch out of her pocket as she did so. The stallion snorted, backing up into the corner of the stall with flattened ears as she shone the small but powerful light over the horse's body. 

In the improved light, it was easy to see the bloodstains on the horse's face and neck. The dried, rust-red smears stood out in stark contrast to the stallion's copper-coloured coat. 

"Oh God," Molly gasped, veterinary training kicking in belatedly after the initial rush of adrenaline. "You're covered in blood. Why are you covered in blood? Did you hurt yourself sweetie? Did something attack you? Is that why you're being so vicious?" She played the light of her torch over the stallion's massive frame, desperately searching for the source of blood without getting too close. The stallion's constant movement made it difficult though. 

Gripping her torch in her teeth, Molly pulled open the gate of the empty stall next to Blaze's. With efficient movements, she scaled the first of the two metal partitions dividing the individual stalls, striving for a better view that would still protect her from the stallion's lashing hooves and vicious teeth. Balancing carefully on the top, Molly ran the beam of her torch over Blaze's trembling frame from a different angle, still looking for the source of the blood.

The stallion screamed again and shied sidewise, the movement of his hooves trampling the remains of a black cowboy hat into the filthy straw.

Seeing it, Molly's stomach suddenly churned and she raised her torch higher, playing the light carefully over the floor of the stall. "Oh no," she whispered, almost dropping her torch in horror as the light revealed the bloodied and badly mangled body of the Triple C's missing trainer.

Swallowing hard against the urge to vomit, Molly let go of the rail with her right hand and reached for the mobile phone tucked into her back pocket. Trembling fingers fumbled and almost dropped the phone before she was able to pull it free and dial emergency services. "Oh god, Blaze," she whispered, putting the phone to her ear, "what have you done?"

~*~


	2. A Different Breed of Client

~*~

_London in March,_ Sherlock decided with a mental snarl, _was absolutely wretched_.

With an angry jerk, he reached down and pulled the dark purple, crocheted afghan Mrs. Hudson had tucked around his feet earlier up and over his shoulders for warmth as he hunched deeper into the sofa's cushions. The flat was chilly, despite the fact that Mrs. Hudson had lit a fire in the grate. She’d also plied him with hot tea and fresh scones earlier in a futile effort to jolly him out of his current sulk. Outside, the rain was pissing down in a steady drizzle punctuated with the occasional, window-rattling gust, much to the misery of the city's pedestrians and countless tourists.

It was dull, stereotypical British weather at its finest...and utterly hateful for the business lull it brought in its wake. 

The bitter winds and cold temperatures meant most amateur riders were reluctant to saddle their horses and traipse the hacking paths of Hyde Park, robbing him of the opportunity to observe their boundless idiocy on the trails in person. Serious training for the major races was either underway or complete, also reducing his business. His last client had been in Wales over two weeks ago. He was cold, cranky, and above all bored. 

The officious-sounding rap of a ₤235 umbrella rapping once against his sitting room door was icing on the figurative cake. 

"Whatever you want me to do, the answer's no," Sherlock growled at the besuited figure standing in the threshold of 221B. He was bored but he wasn't bored enough to stoop to voluntarily taking one of Mycroft's cases without protesting loudly. Standards had to be maintained after all. With an angry sniff, Sherlock rolled over and presented his back to the room, radiating the air of a mortally-offended feline. "Go away."

Mycroft's soft sigh was one of patient long-suffering at his brother's antics; the tone of a martyred man once again being asked to perform impossible miracles using stone knives and bearskins. "Brother dear," Mycroft chided, giving the sulking figure on the couch an exasperated look as he closed the door behind him with a quiet snick. "I haven't even told you about the case."

"Don't care. Boring."

"Oh?" The elder Holmes replied noncommittally as he crossed the room, carefully navigating around the piles of horseshoes, bridles, pedigree registers, scraps of paper, coils of rope, drips of saddle oil and other better-left-unnamed substances cluttering the floor of the flat before halting in front of the two chairs positioned in front of the flat's small fireplace. 

Looking down, Mycroft sniffed at the sight of the filthy black riding boots sitting on the cushion of the flat's most comfortable seat. The boots had obviously been wet when they'd been removed, leaving smears of mud and worse on the red and grey brocade. It would take a steam cleaner at the very least to remove the stains.

Sherlock shifted, craning his neck to look over his shoulder, lips twitching in satisfaction at his brother's expression. Mycroft was glaring at him from beneath hooded eyes, his stiff posture silently communicating exactly how petty he found the younger Holmes' actions to be. As Sherlock watched, Mycroft's facial features smoothed themselves back into their habitual bland mask.

Turning away from the sabotaged seat, Mycroft tilted his umbrella to rest against the arm of less-supportive, modern-style armchair that Sherlock preferred. He set the black Aspinal attaché case he'd been carrying in his other hand on the floor and gingerly took a seat. The leather creaked underneath his weight as he leaned back and crossed his legs. "Boring?" Mycroft inquired, giving his brother an insouciant look as he rested his hands on the chair's arms. "How can you be sure?"

"Because it's one of your cases, Mycroft," the younger Holmes snapped back, his opening salvo delivered. Sherlock rolled over with a soft grunt and stretched out until he was reclining on his back, toes flexing under the cover of the afghan. He ended with his hands folded in prayer position, his head cradled on a velvet brocade pillow, a sarcastic human effigy. "They are almost always dull," Sherlock continued with his eyes firmly shut. "Idiots attempting to hide the illegal use of performance-enhancing substances, the odd case of an incompetent stablehand…though I will admit, the one involving the Baden Baden stud with libido-independent erection dysfunction was rather interesting…"

Mycroft made a soft, uncomfortable noise deep in his throat and Sherlock's ears perked up at the unexpected break in his elder brother's composure. Not Christmas—not nearly loud enough—but certainly a minor point scored without any forethought. "I never would have thought of it, if it weren't for the memoirs of James Herriot," Sherlock reminisced aloud, opening his eyes and looking sideways to study Mycroft's expression; his tone was speculative as he purposely needled his brother. "Sabotaging a rival's breeding stallion by filling the equine AV with boiling water was certainly a novel approach to guaranteeing that the horse would never again attempt to impreg—"

"Indeed," Mycroft interrupted, his face contorting into a microscopic wince at the apparent imagery invoked. He shifted in the chair, the fabric of his trousers rustling as he crossed his legs defensively. "Your case notes on the matter were…extensive…Was it really necessary to run the experiments with the sausages?"

Turning his head, Sherlock looked at the auburn-haired man, his eyebrows raised innocently. "I could hardly experiment on a live horse, now could I? From a scientific standpoint, raw sausage casings are a sufficient thickness to approximate the penile epidermis…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as he reached out to pick up the cup of tea steaming gently on the coffee table in front of him. He purposely took a noisy sip, giving his brother another sidelong glance as he did so, before returning the cup to the surface of the table with a quiet clink of china on wood. "The uncooked meat contained inside was sufficiently sensitive to temperature changes to indicate the level of trauma that Mr. Koeling's stud must have experienced," Sherlock continued, "despite enough time having passed for the injured tissue to have healed. It was simply a matter of verifying my theory." The last statement was delivered with an air of deliberately goading scientific neutrality.

Mycroft's lips thinned. "I'm aware of that, but was necessary for that particular report to be delivered to me during breakfast?"

Sherlock's grin was evidence enough. "Yes," he answered, his eyebrows rising and falling with the word. "Now if you don't mind showing yourself out, I do have other clients expected."

Mycroft closed his eyes, lips pursed as he obviously reached for the dregs of his patience. "Brother dear," the auburn-haired man said slowly. "If you could bring yourself to act as the professional that I know you are, I do have a rather urgent that needs to be investigated that requires your rather…singular expertise."

Mycroft's voice was as calm and patient as if he were dealing with a particularly recalcitrant yearling that was refusing to submit to being bridled...or an undisciplined, uncooperative younger brother. Sherlock's lip curled automatically in response. "What?" Sherlock demanded, "like it did with that ridiculous case you sent me to investigate in Brisbane a few years ago?" Sherlock snorted and tossed his head, his dark curls bouncing and catching on the velvet nap of the pillow underneath his cheek. "Any halfway observant idiot should have been capable of detecting a stolen horse that had been painted in a pathetic attempt at disguising it. Just as they should have also noticed when said stolen horse was substituted for another in a prestigious race. Oh, and quit using your horseman's voice on me," Sherlock added as an afterthought, closing his eyes again.

Mycroft gave him a quelling look that was absolutely wasted on his younger brother. "Then stop acting like a spoiled colt," the elder man retorted, his tone sharp. "This is a matter of far more serious than a case of simple fraud. A trainer is dead and an extremely valuable stallion will be euthanized unless the root cause of its sudden, unprovoked and dangerously behavior can be addressed and remedied." 

"Dull!" Sherlock huffed, not bothering to open his eyes. "All horses are valuable to their owners at the circles you operate in. Most don't sell for less than several hundred thousand pounds and some sell for considerably more." He shifted slightly, his toes flexing and curling under the cover of the blanket. "As for the claim of 'sudden, unprovoked aggression,'" Sherlock continued, his tone snide, "you and I are both aware that most cases of 'sudden, unprovoked aggression' are caused by one of two things: either somebody is guilty of animal abuse, or somebody is guilty of being unconscionably stupid by rewarding an animal for behavioral transgressions. Tragic as it may be that a horse may be euthanized because some idiot died after being kicked or thrown by an eighty-five stone animal, it hardly justifies your presence in my flat. If it's so important to your client, I suggest you contact The Woman and kindly piss off." 

"Trust me, brother dear," Mycroft replied, reaching up to rub gently over an eyebrow with his left index finger. "I am about as comfortable being in your…abode as you are in my being here." Mycroft's gaze played over the space's ugly wallpaper, the odd empty take-away container and generally cluttered surroundings filled with the trappings of Sherlock's occupation. Mycroft's gaze lingered on the large buffalo skull mounted on the wall between the windows, one horn adored with a jaunty, pink riding helmet, the other with an old and well-worn whip, before returning to rest on Sherlock. "If this were a typical situation," the elder man continued, "I would gladly refer the individual in question to Ms. Adler and let her deal with it, since, as you so aptly observed, Ms. Adler quite enjoys dealing with misbehaving animals…and their owners. Unfortunately, the circumstances are otherwise and Ms. Adler would be a…poor fit, both for this particular client and for this particular situation."

"Then you do it," Sherlock retorted petulantly.

"I couldn't possibly," Mycroft demurred, his tone one of obvious false apology. "Not with the Cheltenham Festival coming up next week." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ceiling in disgust. Of the many, many upper-class events he despised, the Cheltenham Festival was in the top three. Mycroft, however, adored it. Not surprising really, considering the pomp, circumstance, society and money surrounding the historic event. Key members of British society would undoubtedly be present, possibly members of the Royal Family. By all accounts, Mycroft should be sitting in his office, plotting on how to make everything run smoothly, instead of contaminating Sherlock's flat with his officious bulk. 

Which meant something else was going on, Sherlock thought with sudden excitement. Possibly something interesting that would justify Mycroft's unwelcome presence. Rolling over, Sherlock sat up and took a moment to actually observe his elder brother. 

The other man's posture was dignified, as always, but there were microscopic tells, ranging from the mud caught in the treads of his shoes to the extra creases in his slacks. Clear signs that stood out like vibrant orange beacons to Sherlock's eyes, advertising that Mycroft's composure was not nearly as solid as it would appear to a casual viewer. The root cause, however, was not immediately apparent. 

Not enough data.

Standing up abruptly, Sherlock stalked across the floor, avoiding the tripping hazards with unconscious ease as he came to a halt in front of the other man. Leaning forward, Sherlock inhaled deeply to better analyze the scents clinging to Mycroft's suit, unashamedly ignoring the other man's affronted look at the invasion of his personal space. Overpriced French food, the pipe tobacco-and-leather infused odor of the Diogenes Club and expensive perfume. Drawing back, Sherlock closed his eyes to better flick through his mental database and deduce the reason for Mycroft's presence. His lips curled in disgust as the solution realised itself. 

Oh. Obvious. Politics and unofficial blackmail. 

How boring. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stalked back to the sofa flopped prone again, the much-abused springs creaking in protest at the sudden increase in weight. "Bad day at the office?" Sherlock sneered, for confirmation more than anything. "You reek of Baccarat's Les Larmes Sacrees de Thebe—the jasmine and geranium clash with your preferred cologne by the way— and your tie knot is less than pristine. You only do that when you are truly irritated. Tell me…was it Grace Hambree or Abu Ben Ishak who contacted you?"

"Neither," Mycroft replied coolly. "It was Lady Cora-René Frantz—"

"Ugh!"

"She's the wife of a peer, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped at Sherlock's less-than-polite response. "Show a little respect!"

"She's an idiot, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped back, "with an obviously fake falsetto tone and no respect for pedigrees. For God's sake," Sherlock continued, his voice rising, "not six months ago she spent over four million pounds on an Akhal Teke with poor conformation as a first communion gift for her goddaughter 'because the little Susie liked the colour' and then the brat had the gall to name the horse 'Goldilicious' after a children's book character!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft ground out. "Your personal observations aside, Lady Frantz remains married to one of the racing aristocracy's most socially prominent and politically significant clients—"

"One of _your_ most socially prominent and politically significant clients—"

"Stop interrupting," Mycroft snapped, his temper visibly flaring. "Politics, professional reputation and the imperative not to alienate our patrons aside, Lady Frantz has a client for us who is willing to pay good money—and by that I mean enough to justify your travel expenditures and my misery in soliciting you—for the best person possible to get to the bottom of this, and God help us all, that's you."

Mycroft fell silent and Sherlock inwardly seethed, knowing full well that his brother was waiting for Sherlock's professional pride and, more importantly, natural curiosity to get the best of him. A few moments later Sherlock reluctantly rewarded his brother's patience with an aggravated huff and a glare. "Fine," Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes at the ceiling theatrically. The sooner he listened to Mycroft's drivel, the sooner his brother would leave. "Since flattery will get you everywhere, dear brother. Which 'friend' does she want us to help this time?"

"A new one," Mycroft replied immediately. "It's not a client we'd normally take, but Lady Frantz was, as you have inferred…insistent. It's an American breeder. A woman by the name of Candii Ross—"

"Candy?" Sherlock interrupted, turning his head to look at his brother, his expression disbelieving, one eyebrow almost level with his hairline.

"Yes. Candii—note spelling, two 'is' no 'y'—," Mycroft replied dryly. "Americans and their love for unsuitable children's names; 'Barbie,' 'Apple', and 'Nevaeh' notwithstanding. Ms. Ross is an old school chum of Lady Frantz, and occasional supplier of riding stock."

Sherlock sighed, his exasperation apparent. "Oh very well…what type of horses does Candii Ross raise? Arabian? Andalusian? Hanoverian?" 

"Sadly not a breed you are quite so familiar with." Mycroft's expression was innocent, putting Sherlock immediately on guard. One of Sherlock's eyebrows rose in a pointed demand for clarification. 

Leaning forward, Mycroft retrieved the attaché case from the floor by his feet, the leather of the seat creaking softly with the movement of his body as he did so. He set the case down horizontally on his lap and opened it, the two clasps releasing with quiet snicks as smooth and polished as the case itself. Reaching inside, he selected a slim manila folder from the stacks contained within, before closing the case the again and returning it to the floor. Mycroft leaned back, gracing his brother with a bland smile. The thumb of his right hand absently caressed the smooth cardboard of the tan-coloured folder now sitting on his lap. "To answer your question, Ms. Ross specializes in raising and training high-quality mustangs—"

"Mustangs?" Sherlock interrupted, his lip curling in disgust.

"Don't be a snob, dear brother," Mycroft admonished him. "Ms. Ross's mustangs have a prize-winning reputation for endurance, agility, and stamina." He opened the folder he was holding and skimmed through several pages until he found the report he was looking for. "The stud fees alone are good indicators of her success, as are the prices she sometimes commandeers for the sale of one of her horses." Mycroft tapped a finger casually against the paper for emphasis as he named several figures that had Sherlock blinking in surprise.

"Impressive, but also ridiculous," the younger Holmes muttered, closing his eyes. He laid back down and shifted his shoulders deeper into the sofa's cushions. "Mustangs—no matter how prize-winning—are hardly worth the type of money that Ms. Ross is prepared to pay by consulting me to spend potentially months rehabilitating one."

"Normally not," Mycroft agreed. "But these aren't ordinary mustangs, Sherlock. Ms. Ross's specializes in Kigers. The horse she contacted us about is her prize stud: a purebred Kiger stallion known as 'Devil's Blaze.'"

"Kigers?" Sherlock blinked in surprise, turning his head again to stare at his brother, a skeptical eyebrow winging upward. While purebred Kiger mustangs weren't especially endangered, compared to Iranian Caspians or Abaco Barbs, they were still rare; rare enough, at least, to possibly justify his involvement if the case was interesting enough. "There are only a few hundred purebred specimens of those worldwide," Sherlock observed aloud. 

"Indeed, which is one of the reasons why Ms. Ross is so anxious to hire you," Mycroft agreed, his tone unctuous. "The loss of such a rare stallion would be a crippling blow to her business, both in terms of stud fees and his worth as a business asset since he is rather…highly ranked in certain region-specific competitions."

Sherlock blinked slowly and ran his tongue over his teeth, a nagging suspicion building in his mind at his brother's tone and word choice. "You're being deliberately vague…what, _exactly,_ does she do with her mustangs? You mentioned their agility and endurance…Does she use them for polo or racing?"

"Not quite," Mycroft admitted, visibly hesitating before continuing. "Her horses are what are commonly referred to as 'stock horses.'" 

Sherlock sat up very slowly, his expression torn between murderous and disbelieving at his brother's sheer gall as the vague hints Mycroft had dropped snapped into a cohesive whole. "Stock horses?!" Sherlock repeated, his voice rising with ire. "Absolutely not! I'm a Consulting Equestrian Expert, Mycroft! I work with legendary bloodlines in the upper echelons of equine sports diagnosing idiot-caused behavior issues and recognizing subtle doping tells…Purebred, endangered bloodlines or not and your personal machinations aside, you want me to travel to America for the sake of a stock horse at a _rodeo?!_ "

"Yes." The fingers on Mycroft's right hand toyed idly with the handle of his umbrella and his smile was thin. "I did rather think you'd be opposed to the idea," he added with a reproachful air, "which is why I took the liberty of bringing you documentation to convince you to investigate." 

"Hah!"

Bending forward, Mycroft retrieved several additional manila folders from the attaché case still by his feet and tossed the first two onto the coffee table, neatly missing the half-full cup of tea. Several pages of a neatly typed police report slid out of the bottom folder. The edges of several colour photographs slid out of the other, their glossy surfaces hinting at the folder's contents.

Sherlock's upper lip curled in a sneer and he rolled back over, refusing to look at the pages scattered across the table on sheer principle, all thoughts of leaving London abruptly banished. 

Rodeos and cowboys. Ugh. Sherlock shuddered at the memory. His recent experience at the Silver Spur Country and Western Club pub in Liverpool, courtesy of an owner's insistence on 'tekkin him oout for a byte aft'a sevvin me gurl 't ta best place aroound' had been distasteful, to say the least. He'd been surrounded by whooping, hollering idiots, each determined to belt out the lyrics to insipidly sentimental songs louder than the last. 

It wasn't just the music; it was the entire sub-culture's mindset. He'd been appalled by the number of people pretending to be rugged ranchers and emulating the glory-days of a fictional American Old West. As if any of the people packing the bar had ever awoken at 4:00 a.m. to help a laboring mare give birth, or received a tetanus jab after tangling with barb wire. As if any of them understood the difference between English and Western riding techniques, or how crack a whip, or sling a lasso with incredible accuracy. As if any of them had ever spent days, if not weeks working with a frightened animal that was determined to trample one to death.

Instead, what he'd encountered had been a blatant mockery of true equine professionals and cattlemen alike.

Almost every bar-goer had been wearing unrealistically clean cowboy boots, but the accompanying fashions had varied depending on the gender of the wearer. The women generally favored skin-tight jeans, raggedly cut-off denim shorts, or short swishy skirts. All choices that were completely impractical for the current British temperatures or their alluded-to 'professions'. The women's shirts had ranged from sleeveless blouses with plunging necklines and rhinestones to waist-baring, flannel shirts tied underneath their breasts. 

The men's outfits had been equally ludicrous. The majority of them had been wearing artificially-distressed designer denim jeans, accentuated with flashy, oversized belt buckles in a blatant attempt to advertise sexual prowess. Some men had elected to wear flannel button-downs or cotton shirts adorned with horribly impractical fringe or embroidery. Others had opted for skin-tight white or black cotton vests that left little to the imagination, no doubt hoping the virile displays would increase their probability of a successful sexual conquest.

And those had been predominantly British citizens. Americans would be even worse if the few drunken tourists were any indication. Mycroft could go hang if he thought Sherlock would voluntarily submit himself to such misery, even for the sake of a rare animal.

"The files in front of you," Mycroft said pointedly to Sherlock's back, "contain relevant information concerning Ms. Ross's horse: laboratory reports, vet records, photographs, and a copy of the police report filed by Captain Gregory Lestrade."

Sherlock snorted, shuffling deeper into the sofa's cushions. He was well aware of his brother's usual ploys. Guilt, an appeal to professionalism, the occasional threat, and—very rarely—something truly interesting. "And I should read them because?"

Mycroft's smile was positively lizard-like as he sank back into the leather chair with a nonchalant air. "Because, dear brother, this is not, as you so blithely put it, a simple case of somebody dying after being kicked or thrown by an eighty-five stone animal." Mycroft paused briefly, his fingers lightly caressing the handle of his favored brolly, before continuing. His tone was deliberately nonchalant. "The body of the late Johan Straker was so badly mutilated by the attacking stallion that it was necessary for the coroner to perform DNA tests to confirm the identity."

Sherlock blinked, attention caught in spite of himself. While high-strung horses weren't uncommon among his clientele, a bite or kick, followed by an attempt to flee was the normal pattern for aggressive behavior. Unless cornered, a frightened horse's survival instincts when threatened were weighted in favor of flight before fight. A mare might attack a perceived predator in defense of a helpless foal, and stallions would fight each other for dominance in a herd, but actual cases of horses suddenly attacking and killing humans, much less dismembering them were practically nonexistent. 

"Oh," he breathed, "now that is a bit more interesting." Sherlock sat up, eyes narrowed in thought, his mind already cycling through speculative causes. Each diagnostic possibility was more tantalizing than the last. Chemicals. Pharmaceuticals. Disease. Sabotage...The horse considering the human to be a rival stallion (an incredibly rare occurrence, but one that had nonetheless been documented). Sherlock's train of thought abruptly broke off as he caught sight of Mycroft's expression. The other man's lips were twisted in a faint smirk of satisfaction at the evidence of having successfully captured Sherlock's interest, despite the younger man's efforts to the contrary. 

Sherlock glowered at his brother, his nose wrinkled in displeasure even as he mentally cursed the other man's ability to manipulate him so easily. Damn Mycroft and Sherlock's own addiction to the lure of puzzles. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in mute query, his expression faintly mocking. Sherlock sniffed once in response, silently conceding the match, check and mate to his elder sibling as he succumbed to temptation. 

Long fingers reached out, plucking the top file from the tabletop and opening it to the consultant's eager perusal. His eyes immediately narrowed in concentration and Sherlock frowned, his left hand fumbling absently for the old-fashioned magnifying glass he'd dropped between the sofa cushions the previous week to take a closer look at the photographs contained within.

The images were disturbing, even for a man that had encountered many cases of animal cruelty during his time as a consultant. 

The pictures were a mixture of amateur and professional shots. Some depicted the scene: the enormous florescent lights creating harsh shadows and throwing the colours of the barn and inhabitants in stark relief. Blurred forms captured the frenetic energy of the uniformed police and denim-clad cowboys rushing around the space. Several had their arms upraised, either gesturing or pointing. Their faces were set in expressions of command or concern. A cluster of blue-shirted paramedics stood off to one side, a collapsible gurney and bags of portable medical equipment ready at hand. In the background, one cowboy had his phone out, clearly filming the proceedings. 

Dismissing the humans as irrelevant, Sherlock turned his attention to the photographs of the horse itself. 

From what he could see, it was a magnificent specimen. Looking at the photos, Sherlock estimated the stallion was at least fifteen hands tall, if not more, though the contorted positions made it difficult to tell. It was certainly was well above average for a breed that tended to be thirteen or fourteen hands in height. The stallion's chestnut coat was a striking copper shade, despite the bloody lather and foam streaked across it. The mane and tail were equally distinctive. The individual hairs ranged from dark red to almost golden blond. 

In some photographs the horse was bucking, his well-muscled hindquarters and lethally sharp hooves frozen in the act of lashing out. Their deadly strength was visible in the damage done to the shattered wooden walls of the pen. Another set of images captured the horse rearing in a desperate bid to avoid the lassos being slung around its neck by a cluster of cowboys and two cowgirls.

A short, muscular, sandy-haired man could be seen balancing on the edge of a nearby stall in the background of several photographs. A vet most likely, if the capped hypodermic just visible in his left hand was any indication. The man's expression was intent but unafraid. He was obviously poised to jump into the stall and administer the contents of the syringe the moment the horse was successfully restrained. The second set of photographs was far more clinical in nature. They'd clearly been taken after the horse had been successfully sedated, as evidenced by the presence of Nitrile-gloved hands and close-up views of the horse's wounds. 

There were many, and it was difficult at a first glance to tell which ones were self-inflicted and which ones may have been human-caused.

A long, jagged cut marred the stallion's left foreleg, narrowly missing the knee joint. A bloody gash, approximately two centimeters wide crossed the horse's right flank, stretching from the point of its hip and down almost to the gaskin. It was still bleeding, the rivulets of fresh blood making rust-red streaks down the animal's side. Numerous small wounds, possibly caused by flying shards of wood based on the background damage to the stall also dotted the stallion's coat and legs. A shallow scrape marred the animal's withers, and there was an enormous, broken swelling on the stallion's face that would leave a noticeable scar, even after it was stitched.

Bloody foam surrounded the horse's mouth, dribbling down its nylon halter and streaking the elbow-length bovine exam gloves of the person restraining the stallion's head. Oddly enough, despite the sedative, the horse's eyes were wide and staring, blown pupils almost completely obscuring the irises. 

Sherlock frowned and tilted his head, his eyes caught by the colour of the horse's eyes. A pink tinge to the whites of an animal's eyes wasn't unusual. Horses, like any other mammal, were prone to eye infections, but he'd never seen a horse with inflamed eyes that were so bloodshot, they were almost solid crimson. The dilation of the animal's pupils, despite the bright lights, was also unusual and raised a red flag in his mind's eye.

Underneath the images of the horse were photographs of the empty stall that had been taken after the horse had been removed. Liberal smears of crimson daubed the walls and crusted the jagged edges of multiple broken planks. In one photograph, a bloody handprint could be seen wrapped a shattered board, the grasp of a desperate man scrabbling futility for salvation or a weapon. The straw bedding lining the stall's floor was churned and scattered, exposing swaths of bare concrete and more patches of blood dried a rusty brown. 

"Tell me about the case," Sherlock ordered, continuing to flip through the photographs. "Don't leave anything out."

"Devil's Blaze: a seven-year-old up-and-coming Kiger mustang stallion. He's a saddle bronco who is being billed as 'The Next Midnight' for his so far unbroken-streak of successfully throwing every competitor who has attempted to ride him," Mycroft began obligingly. "At the Helldorado Days Rodeo three years ago in...Las Vegas, Nevada, I believe…Devil's Blaze took part in an open call bucking competition. The bookmakers gave Devil's Blaze 11/4 odds for him being successfully ridden by renowned American bronco champion Chad Ferley. The horse won, to many people's shock. It was a lucrative experience for multiple individuals, not the least being Ms. Ross as the owner of the horse in question. She apparently received multiple offers from other stock contractors to sell him, but refused them all, preferring to keep Devil's Blaze in her own stock lineup." 

"Go on." 

"By all accounts, Devil's Blaze's behavior was unremarkable for the duration of the Texas Tri-State Stock Show and Rodeo. He, along with multiple other horses, participated in the finals round for the saddle bronco event. Blaze's 'unrideable' record remained unbroken, much to the delight of Ms. Ross and others. Afterwards, Devil's Blaze was returned to his stall by his trainer, Mr. Johan 'Joe' Straker."

"Who found the body, and at what time?"

"The unfortunate trainer's remains were discovered a little after 5:30 a.m. on the 28th day of February by one of Ms. Ross's other employees, a stablewoman named Molly Hooper." Mycroft replied. "The late Mr. Straker apparently failed to appear on time for the start of his shift and Ms. Hooper went in search of him...which is when she also encountered the out-of-control stallion. Ms. Hooper predictably summoned the police and emergency services though, by that point, it was obviously a wasted effort."

Sherlock nodded, silently indicating that Mycroft should continue.

"Ms. Ross arrived shortly afterwards in the company of some of her other employees...several of them are the individuals you can see helping restrain the stallion. Molly Hooper is the brunette woman, George Tredannick is the tall man wearing the white vest. His brother Owen Tredannick is the heavyset man wearing orange. Ms. Ross is the woman with blond hair."

"Who's the man with the hypodermic?" Sherlock asked, tapping his finger on the individual in question. "Ms. Ross's vet?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, that would be Doctor John Watson. A rodeo vet that happened to be on the at the fairgrounds attending to another horse. Ms. Ross's regular vet, Doctor Sterndale, arrived around 7:00 a.m. after the horse had already been sedated and restrained on the recommendation of Doctor Watson."

One of Sherlock's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline at that bit of information, and he looked up from the photographs he was studying. "Risky, I would think, for a vet to sedate an animal without knowing its medical history or the root cause of its aggressive behavior. I'm surprised Ms. Ross allowed it."

"Perhaps," Mycroft agreed, "but a fast-acting, intramuscular injection of xylazine and Dormosedan is relatively benign as far as adverse reactions go and infinitely preferable to a bullet, which was the first inclination of the police when they realized they were dealing with a killer stallion."

Sherlock nodded in acquiescence. Americans were often vocal in their support for ready access to lethal firearms. The American police, in particular, were infamous for being trigger-happy, regardless of whether or not the situation actually warranted the use of lethal force. Flipping through the photos again, Sherlock focused his attention on the close-up of the horse's unusually red eyes. "Based on the equine's behavior," Sherlock asked absently, "what was Doctor Sterndale's initial diagnosis?"

"Rabies, followed by a recommendation for immediate euthanasia. He recommended a post-mortem examination of the horse's brain for confirmation and post-exposure treatment for all humans that had contact with the animal."

Sherlock froze in the act of reaching for his cup of tea, to shoot his brother an incredulous look "What? Rabies? Under what reasoning?" 

Mycroft's smile was thin. "You can read his notes for yourself. I do not think I can do his reasoning—if you can call it that—justice."

"Naturally not," Sherlock muttered, reaching over to pick up the second file and riffling through the pages of records to the notes in question. He spent several minutes in silence reading the messily hand-written text before snorting in derision. "Idiot. Ms. Ross should fire him on the spot if she hasn't already done so. Current vaccination records, no evidence of an animal attack any time in the preceding nine weeks and most damning of all, the horse is still alive more than a fortnight after the attack." Sherlock's hands moved in a gesture of utter disgust. "In an actual case of infection, the horse would have died between three and seven days after developing symptoms. It has to be something else." 

"Indeed. Doctor Watson was rather...blunt in his assessment of Doctor Sterndale's diagnoses." 

"Oh?"

"Mmmmm….yes." Mycroft absently flicked an invisible piece of lint off his trousers. "Doctor Watson pointed out that instances of rabies in horses in the United States were quite rare. He mentioned that he'd spent years stationed in places where the rabies virus was endemic and that the sudden onset of the horse's symptoms didn't match his own clinical experience. Finally, Doctor Watson also drew attention to the fact that the horse was not responding normally to the sedatives, indicating that something else, perhaps an opiate or another drug was was responsible for the stallion's uncharacteristic behavior."

"Observant man," Sherlock mused aloud, running his left index finger absently along his lower lip. "He also sounds moderately qualified to hold his medical degree. Opiates do have a history of abuse in the racing industry and are infamous for making a horse go quote, unquote, berserk. I'm impressed that a military vet would be aware of their symptoms and side effects. What happened next?"

"Ms. Ross was…understandably against the idea of euthanizing her prize stallion without consulting a second opinion, especially after hearing Doctor Watson's suspicions. On her orders, the horse was re-sedated, loaded into a trailer and transported to a nearby clinic. Once there, he was placed in isolation and subjected to a battery of tests, including blood panels and a full drug screen." 

"And?"

"The drug screens came back negative for morphine and other narcotics," Mycroft replied, with a grimace. "With no other indicators of underlying medical issues, Doctor Sawyer, as the primary-care vet, ultimately attributed abuse by the deceased trainer to explain the change in the stallion's behavior. She cited the horse's numerous injuries as evidence in her final report. Because Ms. Ross herself was not a suspect, the animal was released back into her custody. Ms Ross was further advised to contact a behavioral specialist regarding possible rehabilitation."

Sherlock sneered. "And why me?" he demanded, raising an eyebrow. "I know that you mentioned Ms. Ross has friends in high places and is willing to pay for the best, but why are you here, _encouraging,_ " Sherlock's sarcastic emphasis on the word was deliberate, "me to take this case? Surely there are so-called 'horse whisperers' in the United States that have a microm of intelligence to handle a traumatized animal?"

"There are," Mycroft replied grudgingly, "but none that have your reputation for detective work. Your skills specifically are needed, because in light of Doctor Sawyer's reports, Ms. Ross is currently under investigation by both the local police and by her insurance company." 

"What for?" Sherlock asked with a tilt of his head. 

"Potential insurance fraud, among other things." Mycroft's smile was thin. "Somebody at the police department is aware of their history. There was a rash of equine murder cases between the mid-1970s and the mid-1990s in which expensive horses were heavily insured against disease, accident, or sudden death and then killed, either through undetectable means, such as electrocution, or 'accidently' injured in such a fashion that the animal would have to be humanely put down. The owners would then collect compensation under the policies. The practice eventually came to light when convicted horse-killer and American FBI informant, Tommy Burns, testified against a former client. As I'm sure you aware…" Mycroft's tone making it clear that he imagined Sherlock was anything but, "the southwestern portion of the United States has been involved in quite an extended drought. It has dealt a significant financial blow to many of the ranches in the region. I would imagine that Ms. Ross's business is no different. Devil's Blaze is insured for both loss of use and in case of death by disease or any means other than old age. The eventual policy payouts will be lucrative...in excess of two hundred thousand U.S. dollars. It's not surprising that suspicion would fall on the party who would benefit the most from the animal's death."

Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes, his contempt for the police clear. "And Ms. Ross herself?"

"Ms. Ross insists that she is innocent. She is absolutely furious with the insinuations against her character and the potential damage to her professional reputation caused by the police investigation. There is also the matter of an animal rights activist named Kitty Riley who got wind of the story and posted it on her blog. The self-styled whistleblower somehow obtained photographs of the horse's injuries and leaked them on her website as evidence of the animal cruelty that rodeos perpetuate. Ms. Ross is apparently considering legal action against Ms. Riley for libel and slander." 

"Of course she is," Sherlock replied with a sneer. "Mycroft, I don't do boring clients. I prefer cases with a something of a challenge. Nothing you have told me thus far justifies a trip to a place that doesn't even have ubiquitous internet access. If Ms. Ross is that concerned about her business, she'd be better off hiring a solicitor or a barrister to address the issue." 

"You should take a moment to actually study the results of the blood tests before you refuse her case, brother dear," Mycroft answered, offering Sherlock one of the folders he'd been holding back. "An independant lab performed the initial analysis on the samples. I believe you'll find the results...intriguing."

With a growl, Sherlock snatched the file and pulled out the reports fully intending to throw them back at Mycroft's feet, only to stop and stare as his gaze fell the diagnosis printed along the bottom of the first page. _Elevated cortisol levels. Elevated adrenal levels. Elevated testosterone levels. Cause unknown._

The hormone readings were startling high.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, "Oh…now that's unusual…and would possibly explain the aggression, but what was the cause?" Sherlock blinked rapidly, sea-glass eyes narrowed in concentration as he read. Hurriedly, he switched back to the previous folder and thumbed through the stacks of medical records until he found the results for the drug screens. Pulling them free, he stared at the values shown. Clean, as Mycroft had stated, without even a trace of an unknown chemical signature. Drumming his fingers, Sherlock stared at the numbers, lost in thought. 

"Even more worrying," Mycroft interrupted Sherlock's musing. "Is that this does not seem to be an isolated incident. Ms. Ross's horse's behavior is remarkably similar to the accounts surrounding the behavior and death of Melba Toastya."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, looking up from the reports he'd been reading. He flicked an eyebrow in silent demand for clarification. 

"Melba Toastya, a South African racehorse of some renown. It was a possible case of equine murder, though it was never solved as such," Mycroft explained, handing his brother the second to last folder he'd removed from his attaché case. "I'm not surprised you don't recall the incident, you were only five at the time. To summarize, Melba Toastya was slated to win the Durban July Handicap in 1986, but three days before the race was set to begin he went berserk, attacking and killing a groom in the process. Unfortunately, the animal also sustained a broken leg while attacking his stall and had to be euthanized. His owner was investigated, but eventually cleared of any wrongdoing." 

Sherlock's lips moved silently as he read through the blurry photocopies of poorly-archived newspaper articles in several languages, automatically translating as he did so. The headlines were annoyingly sensationalized: 'KILLER STALLION KILLS MAN!' 'MELBA TOASTYA IS TOAST!' and 'RENOWNED HORSE DEAD; FRAUD SUSPECTED!" Sherlock finished reading the final article with a snort and dropped it on the table with a muffled thwap. The look he gave Mycroft was blatantly skeptical. "An over twenty-year-old event, in a time that was rife with incidents of equine murder? It could simply be a coincidence."

Mycroft's answering smile was thin. "I don't believe in coincidences, dear brother. The universe is rarely so lazy. As Ian Fleming once observed 'any incident occurring three times in succession is likely the result of enemy action.'" Mycroft handed Sherlock the final folder he'd been holding. "A week ago, in a remarkably similar set of circumstances to those surrounding Johan Straker's death, a teenage girl competing in a barrel-riding event in Flagstaff, Arizona was hospitalized in critical condition after she was inexplicably attacked by her horse while grooming it in its stall. The girl almost certainly would have been killed, had a nearby good Samaritan not been alerted by her screams and pulled her to safety. The animal was euthanized, but routine tests for rabies were performed and revealed no evidence of infection...or evidence of abuse." 

Sherlock finished reading the article titled 'HEROIC RODEO CLOWN NO JOKE' and tossed it aside with a sniff. He crossed his legs, deliberately mimicking his brother's nonchalant posture. "So not just politics and unofficial blackmail...you suspect...what? Sabotage? A previously unknown doping compound? Why not simply come to me directly about your suspicions, instead of going through all this extra effort?" Sherlock demanded. He grabbed the records Mycroft had plied him with and held them up with an emphatic shake, clearly aggravated. 

Mycroft gave him a sardonic look. "Would you have honestly agreed to investigate if I'd asked you up front to travel to Texas without the files?"

Sherlock mulled his brother's words, before nodding his head to grudgingly concede the point. "True. How soon does Ms. Ross want me to arrive?" Sherlock asked, reaching for a pencil so that he could start making notations. 

"As quickly as possible. My assistant has taken the liberty of securing you a flight and arranging rooming accommodations," Mycroft replied as he pushed himself to his feet. He pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket and pressed a key. "The itinerary should be in your inbox. I do recommend looking at it sooner rather than later."

Taking his umbrella by the handle, Mycroft swung the tip up in a jaunty arc to rest the pole against his left shoulder. He left the unlocked attaché case on the floor at his feet. "I'll leave the rest for you, shall I?" Mycroft drawled, making his way to the door at the same sedate pace he'd used when he'd first entered Sherlock's flat. "I would stay longer, but I do have other duties I need to attend to. Please do give my regards to Mrs. Hudson. Good morning." 

Sherlock ignored him.

Mycroft paused in the doorway, looking back over left shoulder to where Sherlock now huddled on the couch, laser-sharp focus targeted at the sheaf of documents. "Oh, Sherlock, there is one more thing…" the elder Holmes added, his right hand resting gently on the knob.

"For God's sake, _what!?_ " 

"For numerous reasons, all parties wish for this matter to be investigated...discreetly." Mycroft's expression was bland. "You will be traveling to Amarillo, Texas, as you know. Be sure to pack the appropriate attire, won't you?"

~*~


	3. Boots and Blue Jeans

~*~

With a snarl, Sherlock deleted Mycroft's latest missive and shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket, silently cursing his brother with a range of invective that would have done Tom Knisley proud. The old blacksmith had been a shipbuilder for the Navy for years before he'd retired and returned to his roots of working with horses. As a child Sherlock had followed the old man endlessly, badgering him with all sorts of questions about horses, metallurgy and bees. Listening to him shoe the hot-tempered dressage stallion Sherlock's mother had adored had always been a useful exercise in vocabulary-building, despite Mummy and Mycroft's attempts to foil him otherwise. 

Sherlock glared balefully at the crowded airport concourse he was currently sitting in, mentally calculating his chances of using justified fratricide as a defense. The flight from London to Amarillo had been hellish. Twenty-one hours, three plane changes, a four-hour layover in New York City and one missed connection due to a delayed flight caused by inclement weather in Chicago before he'd finally landed in his current place of perdition, otherwise known as the Rick Husband International Airport. 

_Intriguing test results or no, Mycroft,_ Sherlock decided with the air of one who had been awoken by firecrackers setting a car alarm off outside their bedroom window at half three after an eighteen-hour shift, _was going to pay._

_Dearly._

In the distance, loudspeakers squawked, announcing terminal numbers, flight arrivals, delays and the odd advertisement. People jostled each other, some good-naturedly with cheerful calls of "sorry, hun!" and "pardon, Ma'am!" Others, like Sherlock, were less polite; intent as they were on their destinations with no energy to spare for social pleasantries. The rattle of suitcase wheels was interspersed with the creak of baggage carts, the shouts of contractors, and the roar and beep of construction equipment. Apparently the airport was in the middle of being modernized. Ringtones, crying infants and the chatter of countless of inane conversations in different languages added to the general din. 

The sun streaming through the windows of the concourse was unpleasantly hot, despite the tinted glass, adding to Sherlock's overall misery. The landscape outside the windows was a bleak sprawl of utilitarian hangars and grey concrete overlooking fields of dead, brown grass. Here and there were patches of bright green where an irrigation system had obviously been put to good use. One and two-story World War II-era brick buildings, several with weathered plywood boards covering the windows, could be seen in the distance. Their run-down appearance presented a jarring contrast to the sleek modernity of the airport's new multi-story parking garage. Even the sky looked unappealing compared to the comfort of London's cool, damp weather. It was a brassy-looking cloudless blue that threatened sunburns to any fair-skinned individual braving the outdoors. 

Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the view, Sherlock slumped further down in the horrible moulded plastic chair that seemed ubiquitous to airports the world over, letting loose a hiss of discomfort as he did so. Closing his eyes, Sherlock reached up to pinch his left thumb and forefinger at the aching spot at the top of his nose, between his eyebrows, hoping to alleviate some of the throbbing pain in his skull, before taking a reluctant sip from the Styrofoam cup of tea he held in his right hand. The container was branded with the forgettable logo of some 24-hour airport café. Trailwind? Trailhead? Irrelevant, really, though Sherlock had admired—and quickly appreciated—the ingenious, sealable lid. It had already saved him from an undesired drenching, courtesy of a mother and her screaming toddler. Eyes narrowed, Sherlock took another, longer sip of the tepid liquid. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter, over-brewed taste as he set the cup aside on a convenient table. The only redeeming factor of the over-priced swill masquerading as tea was the fact that it was at least caffeinated.

Still grimacing, Sherlock leaned back against the hard plastic chair back. He brought his fingers to his lips, his hands clasped in his habitual thinking position. More comprehensive research would have to wait until he could unpack his laptop, but he could at least review his mental notes on the case while he waited for his ride. It would give him a chance to analyze his current store of data and serve as a welcome cushion from the irritating, nigh overwhelming stimulus of the crowded airport terminal. 

Closing his eyes to better concentrate, Sherlock turned his attention to his human client. 

By all accounts, Candii Ross was a financially-solvent businesswoman with a reputation for ruthlessness. An experienced horse breeder, she was the sole owner of a ranch that had been in her family for three generations. Divorced twice, no children, and intelligent enough to demand a prenuptial agreement both times. Business income generated primarily from raising, selling and renting small herds of horses, known colloquially as ‘bucking strings’ to rodeos for either bareback bronco or saddle bronco riding competitions. 

Additional income came from extensive herds of longhorn cattle, whatever those animals were. Why Mycroft's assistant had thought to include that irrelevant detail, Sherlock couldn't understand. 

The majority of Ms. Ross's horses were insured against accidental injury, with especially large policies being placed on animals that she obviously valued for her business: Devil's Blaze, a red dun mare named Pele, a blond buckskin mare named Freya, and another, dark red liver chestnut stallion with four white stockings that had fancifully been named Blazing Feet. Interestingly enough, two young foals also carried policies. They weren't anywhere near to what a high-quality British jumper or racehorse might be insured for, but they were sufficient to mean that attempted equine murder was not an unreasonable suspicion. 

Except the surrounding facts didn't fit. 

Even if Candii Ross had colluded with her regular vet to commit fraud, there were more subtle ways to kill a horse…such as a fatal electrical shock that would be attributed to colic, not something that could be discredited by any veterinarian with half a functioning brain cell. The death of one of her employees also meant that the police especially would be investigating the case very carefully. Likely with an eye towards murder or manslaughter charges. 

If the horse breeder had been involved, she would have bemoaned the loss of her horse while filing the insurance claim. She wouldn't have fired her vet or sought an independent medical opinion. The police might argue that her actions were to throw off suspicion, but only a fool would deliberately hire an internationally-renowned investigative equine consultant if they had something to hide. Candii Ross might be many things, but it was clear she was no fool.

One didn't survive in cut-throat, male-dominated stock industry for thirty years otherwise.

There was a reason he billed himself as the world's only Consulting Equestrian Expert. No one else combined his extensive background in equine psychology and physiology with an advanced degree in chemistry. If Devil's Blaze had been dosed with a previously unknown chemical compound, Sherlock was confident that he would find both the substance and the party responsible. 

He'd pored over the medical records that Mycroft had left behind, searching for an unusual chemical or molecular trace. Something, anything that would indicate a foreign compound had been introduced or would serve to explain the abnormally high hormone readings. Unfortunately the records remained frustratingly vague. There had been tests done. A battery of tests, many of which he approved of, but none of them contained the data he was looking for. Further investigation would have to wait until he'd had the opportunity to collect and analyze his own hair and blood samples from Devil's Blaze.

Blood samples from the euthanized barrel racing horse in Arizona for comparison purposes would be ideal, but he would have to settle for somehow obtaining copies of the horse's vet records. Mycroft had promised to send him any available records concerning Melba Toastya's care, but so far, his brother's search had been in vain. The vet responsible for the animal's care had vanished shortly before the inquest had been launched and hadn't been seen since. 

What Devil's Blaze's medical records had revealed was that Doctor John Watson was a very good vet indeed.

He'd initially been suspicious of how the man's name appeared repeatedly in Doctor Sawyer's records. A quick review of the employment histories and CV's that Mycroft's terrifyingly efficient assistant had assembled solved that mystery, at least. Though John Watson's primary occupation was traveling and working as a rodeo vet around the country, he was also listed as a locum practitioner at Doctor Sawyer's clinic in the "off-season" winter months, and had been so for several years. It undoubtedly helped explain why Candii Ross has entrusted her horse to Doctor Sawyer's care after firing Doctor Sterndale. 

While Doctor Sawyer had focused on caring for the horse's obvious injuries, Doctor Watson had investigated the potential underlying causes. He'd been the vet to order the drug screens. When those had come back clean, he'd expanded the scope of his search. A complete blood count and ACTH stimulation test had both been run to rule out Equine Cushing's Disease, as had a cancer antigen test that could indicate a possible brain tumor. He'd ordered tests for Vitamin B1 and Magnesium deficiencies, either of which could cause a normally healthy horse to act nervous, spooky, or otherwise unpredictably. He'd ordered tests for gastric ulcers, a common source of belly pain that could cause a horse to act out. He'd also thought to order x-rays to search for pinched nerves, ruptured disks, or other causes of excruciating pain that might explain the stallion's behavior. 

Others might have suspected Doctor Watson of bilking the horse's owner for numerous expensive and unnecessary tests. Sherlock, however, was intelligent enough to recognize and appreciate the other man's through methodology. 

He'd read through the other bios that Anthea had supplied. Doctor Sawyer's was depressingly dull. She'd graduated from the Texas A&M College of Veterinary Medicine & Biomedical Sciences and had worked at a specialized equine hospital before eventually establishing her own, independent, equine-focused practice in Amarillo some seven years prior. Client reviews were generally favorable. Her patients were a mixture of pleasure and performance horses, which was likely the reason for Doctor Watson's position on her staff. No significant debts, no outstanding lawsuits. In short, nothing that would draw suspicion to her actions. 

Doctor Sterndale’s history was slightly more interesting. He'd emigrated from Zimbabwe in 1987, married and obtained eventual citizenship in the United States. He'd graduated from the Auburn University College of Veterinary Medicine and had traveled extensively as a rodeo veterinarian before setting up his own practice. It was an exclusive practice devoted to stock contractors and high-caliber performance animals, both horses and bulls. His bio listed him as widowed with a daughter. The rest of the reports Anthea had supplied contained cursory information about Ms. Ross's other employees: names, photographs, dates of birth, et cetera. 

_Dull._

Leaving the familiar territory of his mind place behind, Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling in exhausted irritation. His problem, Sherlock realized with a snort of frustration, was that he had too much data and not enough information. Mycroft had supplied him with the necessary facts, but his actual investigation would have to wait until he could interview the suspects and examine things for himself. Photographs and record transcripts were useful, but insufficient for discerning underlying motivations. 

Unfortunately, Candii Ross's and, more tellingly, Mycroft's obsession with discretion meant that he couldn't simply swoop in, investigate, perform his deductions and depart, leaving Mycroft to handle the tedious details of payment.

He'd spent the three days prior to his departure memorizing a slew of idiotic American rodeo customs and terminology and developing an alias. He'd also subjected himself to hours of bad American telly and YouTube videos to practice his Montana accent. If he ever had to watch 'The Horse Whisperer' or 'Don't Come Knocking' again, it would be too soon. 'Clay Pigeons' had at least been tolerable...he could empathize with the investigator who'd told off an idiot deputy for standing in evidence. 

Absently Sherlock reached up to scratch at the stubble shadowing his jawline. It itched, but it was a necessary part of his disguise. His cheekbones were too recognizable without it. His feet hurt and all he really wanted to do was take a hot shower and wash the reek of traveling and sweat from his skin. The honest smell of horses and manure was infinitely preferable to the stench of sweaty humans crammed together in too-small of a space for hours on end.

Drumming the fingers of his right hand on his bent knee, Sherlock reached into his back pocket with his left to pull out his mobile. A quick swipe of his thumb across the screen revealed that only twenty minutes had passed since he'd last checked it. The latest non-Mycroftian message, received roughly forty minutes ago, had been from one of Ms. Ross's employees. Molly Hooper had apologetically texted him that she'd be a bit late due to an unforeseen traffic jam. 

Sighing, Sherlock tucked his mobile away, his violin calluses snagging on the worn fabric of one of the pairs of used Wranglers he'd purchased from a Uni student five days ago. Even when working directly with horses, blue jeans were not his normal fashion choice. He preferred the formality and comfort of jodhpurs, but the need for a disguise made denim trousers and the rest of his distasteful ensemble a necessity. 

It had taken some work to ensure his clothes looked like something an experienced rancher would wear, but the attention to details added credibility to his cover. A stone-washed plaid shirt, battered brown Stetson, cowboy boots and a soft northern lilt to his voice completed his transformation from Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Equestrian Expert, to Billy Scott, a reclusive horse whisperer hailing from rural Montana.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock exhaled and flexed his feet inside his new boots. The boots were the one item that he hadn't had time to break in properly, beyond ensuring that they no longer looked, or smelt, brand-new from a box. 

Even if they still felt like it.

If he'd had more time, ensuring his boots both fit comfortably and were sufficiently battered to match his horse trainer persona wouldn't have been a problem. As it was, though, he'd had to go the fast-and-dirty route of steaming them and even those efforts had been unfortunately curtailed by his landlady. Sherlock's frustrated yell of _"it's for the veracity of a case, Mrs. Hudson!"_ had been met with an equally indignant _"not in the kitchen, you won't!"_ and an even more furious _"that's my good soup pot and flannels, you daft man!"_ at a volume sufficient that the authorities would likely have been called had the neighbors not become immune to such routine exchanges. Mr. Chatterjee, from the sandwich shop downstairs, had given him a disapproving look when Sherlock's cab had pulled up. More worryingly was Mrs. Hudson's expression as his cab pulled away: it was one that did not bode well for his future experiments.

The extra thick socks he'd purchased were providing some protection to his feet, but it wasn't enough. Soreness along his toes and the back of his heels where the leather was rubbing promised future blisters if he didn't change his footwear soon. 

Growling, Sherlock removed one boot and reached inside, long fingers smoothing down the inside and cataloging the slight depressions his toes had formed and residual dampness in the leather. A nearby security guard gave him a suspicious look but Sherlock ignored him as irrelevant. He peeled off his sock and carefully examining the reddened skin on his toes and heel before reluctantly redonning his footwear. His skin wasn't yet bleeding or oozing, but the threat was definitely there. He'd have to make sure he stopped at a chemist to purchase plasters before much longer. 

"New boots?" an overtly flirtatious voice from a nearby chair suddenly chirped in a nasally twang that immediately put Sherlock's teeth on edge. 

Sherlock glanced up to see a shapely young woman leaning forward, the sequins edging the v-neck of her blouse giving him a good view of her tanned cleavage. "Yes," he replied, his tone making it clear that he was uninterested in further conversation.

Undeterred by Sherlock's curt tone, the woman leaned back, flicking her honey-blond hair over her shoulders. She gave him a winsome smile, all ridiculously white teeth framed by her choice of coral pink lipstick. Still smiling, she brought her own feet forward, showing off a pair of dainty, highly-tooled, two-tone leather cowboy boots decorated with dark blue leather cutouts, silver embroidery, and more sequins. 

The change in position also emphasized her long legs and skin-tight jeans. 

"I love shoe shopping," the blond confessed with another giggle, "but I hate breaking in new boots. The trick I do to get a perfect fit every time is to take a nice, hot bath, wearing nothing but my boots. I light some candles, pour myself a glass of bubbly, and I just lay back and soak in that nice hot water for an hour or so." She informed him of these facts with a flirtatious bat of her lashes that made it look like something was caught in her eye. "I did it with this new pair I bought last month and now my boots fit perfectly! I just soaked and soaked; it felt soooo good," she continued with a rapturous moan. "You should try it sometime." She shimmied her shoulders, and blew out another sultry sigh at the memory. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not even bothering to disguise his contempt. "Unlikely," he replied bluntly, "considering what a pair of Espinoza or Wendy Lane Henry boots cost. Even though that is a prevalent myth on the internet, doing what you suggested would likely damage one's boots irreparably. Your story about a bubble-bath is an innuendo-filled lie and a blatant attempt to flirt with me," Sherlock continued, overriding her attempts to get a word in edgewise. "Stop wasting my time. I'm not interested."

At that, her mouth snapped shut. "Fine," she snapped, pushing herself to her feet and scooping up her purse and fringed leather jacket with a huff. "You don't have to be a dick about it; I was just tryin' ta be friendly!" With one last pointed glare, she grabbed the handle of her luggage and strode off, the wheels of her suitcase rattling loudly.

"Moron," Sherlock snarled with a contemptuous eyeroll. One or two other nearby travelers gave him apprehensive looks, clearly deciding to give him a wide berth. 

Which suited Sherlock just fine.

He pulled his phone out once more and glared at the still-empty display. Picking up his cup, Sherlock hurriedly swigged the last of the foul tea and before tossing the empty container into a nearby trashbin. It arched through the air before landing with a satisfying ‘thunk’. Pulling himself to his feet, Sherlock grabbed the handle of his suitcase and laptop bag and began striding to the airport's main exit to wait outside.

~*~

Tilting his head back, Sherlock sighed with pleasure and blew a stream of cigarette smoke out from between his lips. The air outside was just as hot and miserable as it had looked from the concourse windows, but the familiar burn of smoke and the comforting rush of nicotine was worth the loss of air conditioning.

A businessman in an ill-fitting suit five paces away standing to Sherlock's left was performing the same ritual, his fingers stained with the evidence of his chain smoking habit. In one aspect, at least, Texas was superior to London. Smoking was widespread in public spaces, provided one obeyed the obnoxious signs informing addicts that smoking was prohibited within twenty-five feet of a building's entrance and exit doors. It was also ridiculously easy to bum a fag from other waiting individuals. The heavily-made-up older woman leaning against a pillar to his right was smoking Marlboros. Not his preferred brand, but he could smell that they were gloriously full-tar ones. She had been more than happy to give two to the handsome cowboy with the northern lilt who had flirted with her and offered her a light.

Still smirking, Sherlock took another deep drag, ribs expanding as he drew the nicotine-laced air deep into his lungs.

Glorious. 

Dropping his hand, Sherlock knocked the ashes away from the glowing butt with a quick flick of his thumb, before bringing the filter back to his lips to take another drag. He let the smoke trickle out of his nostrils as he leaned his back against the pillar in thought. 

Horse whisperer. Sherlock grimaced at the American term. It was an utterly inaccurate description; one that was infused with mysticism and secrecy. There was nothing magical about his methods. His successes came from a keen understanding of equine psychology and a training approach based on kindness and patience. But the title was popular enough that it was easy for him to create a character to emulate it. 

Sherlock reached up and tugged his Stetson down over his eyes, slipping more fully into his role. Loose, loose, loose. Amble rather than stride. Slower speech patterns. Shy. Genial. In short, the exact opposite of who he really was. It took effort to suppress his automatic eyeroll and remain in character. Instead, Sherlock rounded his shoulders inward just slightly and focused on deliberately relaxing the tense muscles of his back to adopt the stereotypical 'cowboy slouch'. Pose complete, he surveyed his surroundings from underneath his hat brim. 

A long line of cars and trucks stretched along the curb, drivers waiting patiently and otherwise for their passengers to emerge. As Sherlock watched, a group of teenage boys, obviously athletes of some sort if the whoops and matching jerseys were any indicator, tumbled from a set of double doors and began making their way to a mini bus. Behind them walked two exhausted-looking adults, each pushing a baggage cart loaded with duffle bags and sports equipment. A short distance away, a woman in some sort of military uniform was being tearfully reunited with her husband and infant daughter in an appalling display of sentiment.

His phone chimed again with the alert of an incoming text. Sherlock pulled it free, unlocking the screen as he took a final fortifying inhale of smoke. As he hoped, it was indeed a message from Molly Hooper informing him that she had just arrived at the airport and would be pulling into the pickup point momentarily. 

Sherlock could have sighed in relief at the anticipation of a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. It was easy enough to ignore the demands of his transport when he was actively working. Standing around and waiting was another matter entirely. The nicotine had helped to somewhat dispel his headache but his shoulders were still tight and sore from the hours he'd spent crammed into a too-small airline seat. 

Sherlock ignored the appallingly-named ‘smoker’s pole’. Instead, he dropped the end of his cigarette on the pavement and ground the still-glowing butt out underneath his boot. Mindful of the 'no littering, area under surveillance' signs posted conspicuously on the walls at regular intervals, he disposed of the remains in a nearby receptacle before grabbing the handle of his suitcase with one hand and slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder with the other. 

In the distance he could see the battered white pickup truck he'd been instructed to watch for. A bright white piece of cardboard, a sign most likely, judging by the size and the faint black streaks marring its surface, was tucked into the windshield, while a tabby-coloured, kitten-shaped Christmas ornament hung from the rearview mirror. The truck inched slowly down the line of parked cars, searching for an empty space. Opportunity arose when an SUV suddenly pulled out and the driver of the pickup claimed the vacated spot with surprising agility for such a junky-looking vehicle. 

Sherlock fixed his expression in a genial mask and ambled towards the parked truck, pulling his luggage behind him, the wheels rattling softly over the pavement. At Sherlock's approach, the anxious-looking driver's expression visibly brightened. She leaned over and unrolled the passenger-side window, giving him a hesitant smile. "Mr. Scott?" she asked, her tone hopeful. "Mr. Billy Scott?"

"Yeah?" Sherlock replied, his vocal intonation rising at the end, making it a question, rather than a statement of fact. He was careful to round of his consonants to something slower, softer, with a touch of lilt. It was an open, friendly voice designed to put people at ease and encourage them to talk. Sherlock tilted his head, indicating the carefully-lettered placard with his current alias sitting on the front windshield and offered the driver a hesitant smile. "I take it you're my ride?" 

"Umm…yes, yes I am," the brunette driver replied, blinking and smiling in visible relief. She unbuckled her seatbelt and exited her vehicle with a few fumbling movements. As she rounded the truck's hood, the young woman paused to wipe the palms of both hands on her jeans, before extending her right hand to shake Sherlock's. "I'm Molly Hooper…from the Triple C?" the woman identified herself with another smile. "I have a badge, if you want to see my credentials?"

Keeping his smile firmly fixed in place, Sherlock returned her handshake, mindful of the strength of his own grip. "Billy Scott," he introduced himself. "And thank you, but I don't think that will be necessary." His gaze flicked over Molly's form, deducing her even as he exchanged tedious social pleasantries. 

Competent with horses and unafraid of hard work, if the calluses on her hands and the scuffs on her sensible, well-worn boots were any indication. Unlike the faux cowgirl who’d attempted to seduce him inside the airport, Molly Hooper was wearing a simple black and hot pink checked shirt and a pair of basic jeans. They were faded and slightly worn at the hems, but otherwise clean. Clothing chosen for durability and washability, rather than fashion. Her hair was pulled back in an ordinary ponytail. Younger than him by a few years, putting her in her late twenties. A touch of makeup and recently freshened lipstick completed her appearance. Desire to make a positive first impression most likely, either professionally, personally or some combination of the two. Sherlock repressed the urge to sigh as he noticed the way the Molly’s eyes were lingering on his shoulders and face. Personal then. Sexual attraction was tedious, but potentially exploitable. 

Sherlock gave Molly a crooked grin as he released her hand "Your vehicle matches the description I was texted, and I'm hardly expecting anybody else at the airport to pick up a cowboy hailing from Montana."

Molly bit her lower lip as she met his gaze. Her own smile was hesitant. "I was hoping I'd recognize you from Ms. Ross's description...she said she’d seen you before and that I should keep my eyes out for someone tall, dark and handsome…" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Molly flushed, swallowing hard. "Ummm…sorry...nevermind," she stammered. "I am so, so sorry I was late. Let me help you get your bags loaded?"

"It's fine. I've got it." Sherlock stepped forward and checked the pickup truck's bed. It was empty except for a coil of rope and a large tool box that had been bungee-corded to the side. "Is the back all right?" Sherlock asked, looking over his shoulder to where Molly was still standing. At Molly's nod, Sherlock shrugged off his laptop case and handed it to her. "Hold this for me." Without giving her a chance to respond, Sherlock bent down and lifted his luggage, heaving it over the truck's side with a grunt and laying it gently in the bed. 

"So…" Molly chirped from behind him. "Montana, huh?" 

"Yes."

"What's it like?"

"Green," Sherlock replied succinctly, shoving his bag into a corner. 

"Would you tell me about it?" Molly asked, her eyes wide and hopeful, her tone somewhere between flirtatious and hesitant. She blinked several times, a technique Sherlock recognized that was probably intended to be sexy, but instead made her look like she had dust in her eyes. "I've never been. I bet it's beautiful," Molly continued, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair back behind her left ear. 

"It is," Sherlock replied, resigning himself to the tediousness of small talk. He pulled up his mental database of England's counties and compared them against the few images of Western Montana that he'd Googled while waiting in the airport. Cumbria was a close enough approximation. Lies were always easier to believe if they incorporated a kernel of truth. "I'm from Western Montana, which is near the Rocky Mountains. It's not flat there like it is in Eastern Montana," Sherlock continued, reaching into the toolbox and removing a spare elastic bungee. "My home is just off of the shores of a large lake, and the trees are quite tall. In the mornings and evenings, you can see the snow reflecting the light off of the mountains in the distance. For most of the year, that is. The snowpack melts during the summer months."

"That sounds really pretty. Did you grow up there?"

"No, I didn't," Sherlock replied, still sticking to the truth. "But it's a place I'm looking forward to going back to once I'm finished here. What about you? Are you from around here?"

Molly shook her head. "I grew up in Oklahoma. On a cattle ranch. With cows. Um…not really with the cows. I mean I grew up in a house...well, trailer actually. Original country girl from the middle of nowhere, that's me." She gave a self-conscious laugh, a flush darkening her fair skin. 

Sherlock chuckled. "We've got something in common then, though in my case it was nothing but horses and sheep and fields as far as the eye could see." A partial truth. The Holmes estate was extensive and was surrounded by the fields of farmers and their livestock. "Speaking of middle-of-nowhere," Sherlock continued, "how far is it to Ms. Ross's ranch?" He glanced over his shoulder to look at where Molly was still waiting and patiently holding his laptop case.

"About an hour...maybe a little less depending on traffic. The Triple C's between Canyon and Palo Duro Park." Molly tilted her head sideways as she shifted the laptop bag into a more comfortable position on her shoulder. "Did...did you need to stop at a gas station for something? We can, if you need—"

Sherlock bit back an automatic retort about time and distance being relative, not synonymous. Instead, he sent Molly a genial smile over his shoulder. "Oh! I just never heard it phrased that way. As for stopping, no. I'd rather get to the ranch as quickly as possible." Sherlock looped the bungee through his suitcase handle and attached it to one of the pickup truck's tie down points. Hopefully it would be sufficient to keep his bag from sliding around the bed as they drove. He didn't relish the thought of having to replace the highly specialized chemicals or more-obscure pieces of labware he'd packed in with his socks and pants. 

Molly shrugged, scuffing the heel of her left boot against the asphalt. "I guess it's a Southern thing? I can look it up on my cell, if you'd like?" 

"No. It's fine." Satisfied that everything was secure, Sherlock retrieved his laptop case from Molly. "Shall we?"

"Of course…just let me...um...unlock your door." Molly reached through the open window and pulled up on the small button. The latch released with a loud click. The handle was less obliging. It took two tries to get the door open, and when it did, it was with a protesting groan. "Um...sorry," Molly said apologetically as she rounded the hood to climb back into the driver's seat. "The latch is a bit cranky and you'll have to really slam the door to get it to close," she continued, "but you're probably used to it, seeing as how you do a lot of ranch work. Hop on in." 

"Where should I sit?" Sherlock asked, indicating the canvas bag stuffed with books that was sitting on the bench seat.

"Oh, right, sorry," Molly winced. "Um, you can set that in the footwell, if it'll give you enough room for your legs? I'm not used to many passengers. Feel free to turn on the radio, if you like. I also have a couple of CDs in the glove box...Glee, Ohio Express, Shania, oh and some Sarah McLachlan if you like her."

"Mmm...nope," Sherlock replied, popping his 'p,' his tone and expression making his opinion on Molly's musical offerings clear. Ignoring Molly's embarrassed flush, Sherlock picked up the book bag and deposited it on the floor, before seating himself on the worn flower-patterned seat cover. He set his laptop bag on the bench beside him, then pulled hard on the door handle to slam it shut as instructed. Sherlock frowned as his mobile chimed and he pulled it free to glare at Mycroft's latest missive. 

_Doctor Mortimer's records from Flagstaff, AZ attached. See enclosed. M_

"Bad news?" Molly asked hesitantly, interrupting his chain of thought.

"No," Sherlock replied absently, his thumbs dancing across the keypad as he sent Mycroft a return message. 

_29 hours? You're slipping. Still need copies of equine necropsy records. SH_

There was a pause then:

_An expression of gratitude would not be remiss, dear brother. M_

"Well, don't forget to buckle up," Molly ordered lightly, distracting him again as she reached into her pocket to pull her out her keys. She fumbled and almost dropped them on the floor before successfully jamming one into the ignition. Reaching behind herself, Molly grabbed her seatbelt free and latched it before turning the key, bringing the engine to life with a rumble. 

It was difficult for Sherlock to not roll his eyes at the unnecessary request as he typed _'Piss off. SH'_ and hit 'send' with an emphatic push of his thumb. Giving Molly a fake smile, Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket before pulling his own shoulder harness across his chest and fastening it. 

The jerk of the truck pulling forward caused the bookbag resting on the floor to fall back, knocking the flap askew and revealing the contents inside. Curious, Sherlock looked down to glance at a few of the titles visible on the book spines. 

" _Equine Dermatology…Advances in Equine Upper Respiratory Surgery…Outline of Clinical Diagnosis in the Horse… Equine Podiatry..._ ," Sherlock read aloud, his gaze flicking back to Molly's profile. "Interesting choice in light reading for a lady ranch hand. Are they actually yours?" His tone was deliberately skeptical, designed to provoke Molly into correcting him. 

He was not disappointed. 

Molly shot him a sidewise look in turn, her expression decidedly less enamoured than it had been a moment ago. Her lips pressed together into a thin line and Sherlock could see the muscles in her jaw flex. "Not for a woman who’s currently pursuing a degree in Equine Science," Molly finally replied. Her voice was chilly. She braked to let a family cross the walkway in front of her, then pulled forward again. "Or for a VTNE-certified veterinary technician with an interest in veterinary pathology. You should try reading them...you might learn something useful." She opened her mouth, obviously intending to add something else, but shut it without saying anything. Instead, she shot Sherlock one final glare before focusing on the road in front of her.

An awkward silence followed. 

With her lips still tightly pressed together, Molly carefully steered the truck out of the airport and onto a major thoroughfare with the unoriginal name of 'Airport Boulevard'. In the distance, Sherlock could see a motorway—no, interstate or highway, must stick to American terminology, he reminded himself as he contemplated the arid landscape. It was flat, with nothing to interrupt the vast expanse but scattered prefabricated buildings and a few scraggly trees. 

Sherlock slid his gaze over to Molly who studiously ignored him, and frowned at his apparent miscalculation. She was supposed to correct him and keep talking; not correct him and then shut up. It would be difficult for him to subtly interrogate Molly about the ranch and staff if she wasn't speaking to him. Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth, mentally gauging which tactics would work best for regaining Molly's good graces. The creases around her narrowed eyes indicated both insult and hurt. 

_An apology then, followed by a feigned interest in her Uni—no college—courses,_ Sherlock corrected himself again. _Must stick to the Americanisms._

Coughing slightly to clear his throat, Sherlock removed his hat and draped it over his upraised knee, before ruffling both hands through his curls, sending them into a fetching disarray. He was careful to leave one stray curl dangling over his right eye, knowing that many women found tousled hair sexually appealing. Satisfied with his appearance, Sherlock cleared his throat a second time, causing Molly's gaze to flick over towards him. 

Catching Molly's gaze, Sherlock gave her a particularly soulful look through his long eyelashes, the one that worked quite well on men and women both. "My apologies," Sherlock replied, his tone carefully contrite. He adding the tiniest wobble possible to his bottom lip. "I didn't mean to insult you. I'm...not used to ranch hands with ambitions beyond drinking or getting laid."

Molly sniffed, a surprisingly unfeminine sound, but Sherlock could see the tension slowly releasing from her posture. Glancing up in her rearview mirror, Molly changed lanes and began accelerating onto the highway. "Fair warning, since you're new here and all," she told him once she successfully merged into traffic. "I don't know what things are like in Montana, but Ms. Ross doesn’t tolerate sexist remarks or behavior from her staff. You'll get one free warning from her. The next time you get written up. Do it a third time? You're gone."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. Molly Hooper's warning fit the profile he'd been assembling on Candii Ross. A tough, no-nonsense woman with enough power to state her terms and apparently no patience for casual sexism.

A trait which was apparently shared by her female ranch hands as well. 

Adopting an expression of interest, Sherlock reached down and pulled one of Molly's textbooks free from her bag. It was a battered, but still serviceable copy of Beurgelt and Del Piero's _Color Atlas of Equine Pathology._ Not a bad text. He owned at least two different editions himself, though he preferred Raquel M. Walton's _Equine Clinical Pathology_. Thumbing the textbook open, Sherlock could see where somebody, (likely Molly if the colour was any indicator) had carefully highlighted certain passages in bright pink marker. 'Evisceration of the abdominal, pelvic, and thoracic organs,' began the first chapter, accompanied with colour photographs of the contained viscera. 

Sherlock looked up from the book, privately bemused by the juxtaposition of the petite woman beside him and the obvious fascination with the macabre. "This is some pretty advanced stuff," Sherlock observed aloud, continuing to play his role. "What year are you in?"

"My senior." 

"Why're you working as a ranch hand if you're so smart?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head. "Why not for a vet clinic somewhere if you've got certifications?"

"The money and hours are better," Molly said shortly. "And Ms. Ross offers a bit of a scholarship program for employees who want to continue their education, provided they keep working for her while in school."

"She sounds like a generous employer," Sherlock observed aloud.

"She can be," Molly acknowledged, but there was a tightness to her expression that hinted at something else. She signaled to change lanes, easily passing a small white compact car before moving back over.

Sherlock pursed his lips. An apparent sore point. He'd have to try a different tactic. One appealing to her particular interests, perhaps? He flipped through several pages, looking for the most-read sections. "Why pathology specifically?" Sherlock finally asked, tapping his finger against a section detailing how to perform a decapitation for a field necropsy. "Why not just become a vet? Won't pathology involve additional years of schooling?" A stupid question. The answer so obvious that Sherlock felt like he was stooping to _Dimmock's_ level to even ask it, but it had the intended effect. 

Molly blinked. Whatever she'd expected him to say, it obviously wasn't that. She glanced sidewise at him, obviously sizing him up, before returning her attention back to the road. "Yes...but dead animals are easier to deal with than live humans," Molly finally answered. "I got my fill of that when I worked at a clinic."

Sherlock huffed through his nose and nodded in agreement, causing Molly to glance sideways at him again. Sherlock gave her a rueful smile, one designed to elicit commiseration. "I know…most horse owners are idiots." He closed the book and slid it back into Molly's bag. "They see a problem and hire me to 'fix' an animal like you would a flat tire or a broken cup. Few ever stop to consider how their own actions may have contributed to the horse's behavior."

"True," Molly replied, relenting, her expression visibly softening. She paused, obviously trying to decide how to phrase her next question, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel in a nervous tempo. "I know Ms. Ross hired you and all...but I was curious, so I looked you up online. I found your website…'The Science of Equine Deduction' I think it was?" At Sherlock's nod, Molly swallowed once, before continuing. "It's pretty basic...just your contact information, a few photos of some very pretty horses, and something about how you deduce a horse and correct behavioral issues accordingly. No client testimonials or anything. Why's that?" 

Sherlock spared a brief thought of annoyed respect at Molly's curiosity, grateful that he'd taken the time to revise his website to match his current alias. "I prefer to keep a low profile to maintain my clients' privacy," Sherlock explained, waving a careless hand. "I've seen the publicity that other horse whisperers are subjected to…John Rarey, Monty Roberts, Buck Brannaman. They're often the subject of documentaries and targets for reporters or animal welfare groups…Minimizing my online presence helps keep idiots away from my ranch. It also reduces the number of idiots who contact me. I don't do boring clients."

"And a stallion going bibbily and killing somebody isn't boring?" 

"It's Christmas," Sherlock corrected with relish. 

"Okay," Molly said faintly.

They drove in silence for several more minutes with Molly shooting him sideline glances before she spoke again. When she did, her tone was hesitant. "About that...I know you're the expert, but what, exactly, do you do to rehabilitate the horses you're hired to help? And what are you planning on doing to Blaze?" 

_Ah. Sentiment,_ Sherlock concluded. Molly was concerned about the horse's well being, beyond what one would expect from a normal ranch hand. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Sherlock gave her his practiced 'reassuring an idiot' smile instead. "Nothing untoward," he promised her. "I don't believe in corporal punishment for animals, if that's what you're afraid of. I also don't believe in traumatizing an already-abused animal further through a show of force." 

Sherlock glanced at Molly from the corner of his eye, evaluating the effect of his words. The way that she perceptibly relaxed was evidence that it'd obviously been a concern. "I spend quite a bit of time simply observing my equine clients at first. If possible, I also investigate the nearby environment and interview staff. Stray dog hairs, a particular scent, a certain colour…any one of them can be potential triggers for undesired behavior," he explained. "Doing my research helps me deduce what caused the trauma and how to compensate for it."

Molly bit her lip before nodding in agreement. "At the vet clinic where I used to work, we'd occasionally get cases of animal abuse that would result in a dog being terrified of bearded men, but fine with blond women." She turned briefly to give Sherlock an apologetic smile. "Sorry for being nosy, it's just that…I'm worried about him. I don't want to see him hurt…any more than he's already been, that is."

"Understandable." Sherlock shifted in his seat so he could lean one shoulder against the window and raised his left arm along the back of the bench seat. The movement pulled his plaid shirt taut across his chest, emphasizing the length of his torso and the muscles in his arms. He uncrossed his legs and spread his knees slightly in a not-so-subtle signal of masculinity and sexual attraction and dropped his chin so that he could gaze up at her through his lashes. "I'd be glad for your help," Sherlock told Molly softly, with an encouraging smile intended to draw her out. 

"Um...well...okay," Molly said slowly as if she weren't quite sure Sherlock's statement was genuine. 

"What can you tell me about Devil's Blaze? Both generally and personally? I've worked with a lot of horses, but this is my first time working with a mustang bronco."

"Oh?" Molly asked, her tone curious. "What breeds do you normally work with?"

"Thoroughbreds and other riding horses," Sherlock replied immediately, sticking to the truth, if not the truth in its entirety. “I've also done quite a bit of work with performance animals...dressage stallions, show jumpers and the like."

"In Montana?" Molly asked, her skepticism evident.

"I travel a lot," Sherlock replied easily. "Ms. Ross is hardly the first client I've traveled for. Sometimes it is the safest option for all parties involved." 

"Ah...um...okay," Molly replied frowning briefly before apparently accepting his explanation with a shrug. "Well…to answer your first question, I didn't spend a lot of time working with Blaze myself. That was mostly Joe's job. He was the one in charge of keeping him conditioned and groomed. I just handled the occasional deworming and such. But I can tell you that Blaze is a love. Or at least he used to be," Molly sighed, her expression troubled. "Obviously, you can't ride him since he's a championship bucking horse, but he loved treats, was easy to catch and would lead as nicely as you could possibly wish for."

"About that," Sherlock interrupted, honing in on a point in his research that had puzzled him, "I thought the point of broncos was to be as wild as possible?"

"In the ring, yes," Molly agreed immediately. "But not all the time. Things might be different for feral horses that are used for a wild horse race, or for rodeo events in the past, but modern rodeos are different. For everybody's sake, domesticated broncos need to be gentle enough to accept being led and loaded, or treated by a vet without kicking up a fuss if they get hurt or need vaccinations." Molly paused to brush a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. "That's where Ms. Ross's horses really stand out from other bucking strings," Molly continued. "She works very hard to desensitize her horses to the noise of a rodeo so when they're led into the bucking chutes, they look all pretty and sweet and docile…until the gate opens. Then all bets are off."

Sherlock chuckled, as suited his character. "Do cowboys get thrown a lot?"

"Depends. It's not uncommon for somebody to get dashboarded."

"Dashboarded?"

"Er…that's what we call it when somebody gets thrown over the front of a horse. I'm always a little bit worried that they're going to get hurt, but it's...pretty fun to watch, and the smarter riders wear padded vests when competing. Blaze seemed to treat it like a game. Once he threw a rider, he'd prance around, his tail up in the air like he was gloating, if that makes sense," Molly replied, giving Sherlock a hesitant smile which he returned before allowing it to fall away.

"Keeping in mind that the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate, what can you tell me about the night that Johan Straker was killed?" Sherlock asked abruptly. 

Molly blinked, obviously startled by the sudden change in Sherlock's tone and demeanor. "Um...well, it...um...kind of depends on what you want to know," she stammered.

"What was the first thing you noticed?"

"About?"

"Anything," Sherlock snapped, too impatient to bother being polite. "Must I repeat myself? I told you that I look for possible triggers. Was the stall dark? Brightly lit? Was there another horse present? What about an animal of some type, perhaps a polecat or snake? Does Devil's Blaze have a known adverse reaction to a particular type of cologne? Was he wearing a halter? What was the first thing that struck you as odd?" 

"The...the fact that Blaze was screaming," Molly stammered. "Because he never does that, at least not that I've heard, and I've worked for Ms. Ross for almost three years."

"Did you know it was Devil's Blaze?"

Molly shook her head. "Not at first. I just heard a horse screaming in the dark. That's never a good sign, so I ran forward to see if somebody needed help." She paused and licked her lips. "It wasn't until I got to the stall that I realized it was Blaze. He was covered with blood and lather, but when I tried to get close enough to see what was wrong, he tried to attack me."

Sherlock rubbed his forefinger across his bottom lip, absorbing Molly's words. "In what way?"

"Rearing and striking first, then he tried to bite me." Molly swallowed. "It was scary. I thought he was hurt and that was why he was lashing out...because animals will do that. Only I couldn't get close enough to safely examine him, so I climbed a nearby stall partition so I could see better. That's when I saw Joe's body and realized I needed to call 911."

"Were any lights on?"

Molly bit her lower lip and wrinkled her nose in thought. "Just a few? Enough to see where I was walking. I remember having to turn on the overheads, though." 

"Was anybody else in the barn?"

"No. Just me...well and Joe's body, but that doesn't count, does it?"

Sherlock shook his head and drummed the fingers of his left hand on the back of the seat. "What about other horses? Blaze is a stallion, correct?"

"He is," Molly replied with a nod. "Which is why he's stabled alone. If you're thinking there might have been a rival stallion, or a mare in estrus nearby, there wasn't. The barn was actually pretty empty. The only reason Blaze was even stabled there was because there was some sort of mixup somewhere and I guess that's where they put the overflow." 

Sherlock nodded, privately impressed that Molly was following his train of logic. "You mentioned that there were there other horses. Do you remember where they were in relation to Devil's Blaze? "

"I don't," Molly winced. "Honestly, it was all a bit of a muddle. George or Owen might remember something, though, if you think it might be important."

"It could be. I'm not discounting anything at this point. Who are George and Owen?" Sherlock asked for appearance's sake, despite already knowing the answer.

"George and Owen Tredannick. They're brothers that both work for Ms. Ross. They were there that weekend to help load the stock up after the rodeo and they helped load Blaze into a trailer. You can ask them when you see them. They both live on the ranch...um...are you okay?" Molly asked hesitantly, looking over to where Sherlock's knees were bouncing in a rapid tattoo.

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped, willing his traitorous body back to stillness. "I'm just craving a cigarette. It's nothing. Now, what about the stall itself? Did anybody examine it? Perhaps to look for the remains of an animal? Something that might have spooked Devil's Blaze...a snake or scorpion, perhaps?"

Molly's eyes flicked up and down, obviously debating on whether or not to take Sherlock at his word. After a moment she shook her head. "No, we didn't. Once Blaze was out, the police wouldn't let anybody inside. They said it was a potential crime scene or something." 

Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Hopefully that meant the stall was still cordoned off. "Fine. Johan Straker's body, then," he said instead. "Describe it to me."

Molly pursed her lips in thought, her expression unhappy. "I've seen a lot of cowboys get trampled over the years," she said slowly. "It...kind of goes with territory. Accidents happen and sometimes people get hurt when an animal panics...but…" She paused, obviously trying to decide how to phrase what she had seen. "Have you ever seen a predator like a coyote that's been trampled by a horse?"

"Yes?"

"Like that. Only worse." Molly swallowed. "It...it was bad. The police wouldn't let us get too close to the body, but it was kind of hard to avoid seeing it when we lassoed and cross-tied Blaze so that Doctor Watson could sedate him. Afterwards—"

"Doctor Watson?" Sherlock interrupted though he already knew the answer. "Who is she?" The mis-genderization was deliberate, a subtle reference to female veterinarians designed to further integrate himself into Molly's favor. "Is that Ms. Ross's regular vet?"

"He wasn't," Molly corrected him. "John—I mean Doctor Watson—is now, but he wasn't before. That was Doctor Sterndale. Doctor Watson happened to be on site and came running when he heard there was trouble. He also helped us get Blaze restrained before the police killed him. Doctor Watson's a rodeo vet," Molly explained at Sherlock's look of deliberate confusion, "so he's got a lot of experience with out-of-control animals."

"Ah," Sherlock pursed his lips. He tilted his head, making his curls shift just slightly. "You...called him by his first name...are the two of you...friends?"

Molly shook her head, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. "I know him professionally more than anything. He's been involved on the rodeo circuit for a few years now. A lot of us know each other to at least some extent. It's a small world. Even smaller if you work with animals."

"So Ms. Ross knew Doctor Watson previously?"

"Yes."

"Mmm…" Sherlock replied, making a mental note to investigate the vet a little more thoroughly. "What happened next?"

"Well...um...after I called the police and Ms. Ross, everybody came running. Some of the police wanted to shoot Blaze, but Captain Lestrade—"

"Who's he?" Sherlock interrupted. Mycroft's files hadn't contained any information about the man.

"Oh, um...he's a police officer that often does mounted security at the fairgrounds. He's nice, with kids especially. They love it when he lets them pet his horse—"

"You were talking about Devil's Blaze," Sherlock interrupted. "Continue...please," the second word was added as an afterthought, prompted by Molly's thinning lips.

"Well, Captain Lestrade told them to stand back and the rest of us got our lassos out to help cross-tie Blaze so Doctor Watson could sedate him and remove him from the stall...Doctor Sterndale arrived about an hour later and he and Ms. Ross and Doctor Watson got into a big argument about whether or not Blaze had rabies. Eventually Owen and George helped get Blaze loaded into a trailer so he could be taken to a clinic and checked out while the police photographed everything and questioned us about where we'd been, what we had seen, if Joe had any enemies. That's...about it, really." 

Sherlock frowned, adding Molly's words to his mental files. "What can you tell me about Johan Straker?"

Molly shrugged. "He was a good trainer—"

"I know that already," Sherlock interrupted her. "What can you tell me about his character?"

"Oh um...well," Molly bit her lip. "I know he got around a lot...he was, well, a bit of a stargazer," she said meaningfully. At Sherlock's blank look Molly's blinked and tilted her head, her expression implying that surely Sherlock knew what she was describing. "He had quite a lot of sex," she clarified after a moment. "He would occasionally joke about buying his own village in Africa and having four wives and a ranch of his own...but that's probably not what you're asking."

"No. More specifically, would he be the type to strike an animal without provocation?"

Molly shook her head. "Never. Ms. Ross would never have hired him if he were. She's real careful about screening her staff...she won't let just anybody touch one of her horses, rodeo competitions being the exception." 

Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knee, idly marking out the fingering for Bartók's _Sonata for Solo Violin_. "What about vices?" he asked. "Drinking? Smoking?"

"I don't know about drinking," Molly answered slowly. "Joe kind of kept to himself outside of work. But I know he smoked...and he was reputed to have a bit of a temper." Molly wrinkled her nose at Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "I heard that he once punched somebody for nicking one of his fancy imported cigarettes," she explained. "But I didn't witness it myself, so I don't know if it's really true." 

"Gambling?"

"I think maybe sometimes? The night before he was killed, Doctor Watson mentioned Joe'd won some money on a bull ride, but I don't know if was a regular thing."

"Friends?"

Molly shook her head. "Just buckle bunnies...um...women who really like rodeo cowboys," Molly added, slanting a quick, shamefaced look across to Sherlock. "Um…as I said, Joe kind of kept to himself outside of work."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, making a mental note to investigate Johan Straker thoroughly once he had a secure internet connection. Love and lust were ridiculously pedestrian, yet surprisingly vicious motivators for a host of reprehensible human behaviors. 

"What about the rest of the staff?" Sherlock prodded after a moment. "Just so I can get an idea of the layout?"

"Oh, there's about a dozen of us," Molly replied, once again changing lanes to pass a slower-moving vehicle.

"Are," Sherlock corrected automatically.

"What?" Molly asked, blinking at the non-sequitur.

"You said 'there's' it should be 'there are."

"Oh, sorry," Molly replied, her tone flustered. "Um…there are about a dozen of us, not counting the seasonal part-time staff. Ms. Ross is the boss, obviously, and handles the business end and the most of the hands-on training of the horses. Our ranch foreman is a woman named Natalie Tsedaa'—Nat for short—Juana Castillo is the ranch housekeeper who also doubles as the cook. She’s really nice but doesn't speak a lot of English. You know about Joe already...and I already mentioned Owen and George." Molly bit her lip in thought, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as she counted off who she'd listed. "Kate Holdridge, Mark Spencer and Cole Jones are all part-time hands that mostly muck out stalls. There's a few other guys that are in charge of the cattle, but I don't know them as well." 

Molly fell silent as the road abruptly narrowed, bright orange construction signs advising drivers to keep left and to watch for workers. 

Taking advantage of the welcome conversation lull, Sherlock turned his head to focus on the passing landscape. It was still monotonously flat, except for... 

Blinking, Sherlock tilted his head to focus on a very familiarly-shaped structure , one that would be instantly recognizable to anybody with even a passing familiarity with Roman architecture.

"Oh, that's the Carlosseum," Molly answered Sherlock's unasked question, tapping on the brake to increase the distance between them and the articulated lorry, _no, semi tractor trailer truck_ , Sherlock corrected himself, they were following. "It was built sometime around last year, maybe the year before by some artist as part of a public works art project grant, or something," Molly continued prattling. "Seems a shame to do that to a bunch of cars, but I read in the paper that it's been a very popular tourist attraction."

Sherlock looked at the tan coloured edifice and bit back a scathing retort. "Quite," he muttered giving into the impulse flashing through his mind. He quickly pulled his mobile out and aimed it at the window, snapping a picture and quickly composing an accompanying text.

_Felicitations from Texas, brother dear. Perhaps you might enjoy vacationing here after you finish organizing the Royal Ascot. SH_

He sent the text off with an evil smirk before turning his attention to his inbox. A quick perusal through his email showed no new messages worthy of his time. Why did companies insist on sending him adverts for penile enhancement drugs? Sherlock frowned, making a mental note to have Jim from IT send them a reciprocal message...perhaps RACHE, the virus that wiped the recipient's address book, or maybe the one inviting the sender to play a great game… Dismissing the thought for later, Sherlock opened up a new page in his browser and began searching for independent diagnostic laboratories. 

They drove in silence for another five minutes before the last of the construction barriers fell away and the road began to widen. 

Molly looked over to where Sherlock was concentrating on his mobile. "Um...do you mind if I turn on the radio?"

"Nope," Sherlock answered, popping the 'p'. "Just don't be dull," he added, still concentrating on his mobile, thumbing open a new screen and performing a different search.

With a frown, Molly reached over to fiddle with the radio dial and began flipping through different stations. One was playing rap music. Another was playing what Sherlock vaguely recognized as Mariachi music. A third channel featured a man singing some inane song about the pleasure he derived from experiencing sexual intercourse for the first time and putting his penis inside a woman. At Sherlock's appalled expression, Molly hurriedly turned the dial again and the strains of Bach's Fugue from _Sonata for Solo Violin No.1 in G minor_ filled the truck's cab.

"This is fine," Sherlock said, his tone brooking no argument. 

"Okay," Molly agreed, glancing over to where the fingers of Sherlock's left hand were tapping along in time to the music. “Do you like classical music then?"

"I do," Sherlock answered, swiping his right thumb across his mobile screen to view the next page.

The landscape continued to change as they drove. The flat plains surrounding Amarillo steadily transforming into rougher country filled with buttes, ravines and the occasional plateau. The flora also changed, low-lying grass giving way to scrubby trees, scattered patches of wildflowers and formations of bright orange rocks and dirt. 

Fifteen minutes later, they turned off the highway and began making their way down a long, winding driveway paved with gravel. 

"Here we are," Molly said abruptly, bringing the truck to a halt and startling Sherlock from his mental wanderings. "Welcome to the Triple C."

~*~


	4. The Triple C

~ * ~

Sherlock looked up at the massive, stone and timber arch spanning the ranch's entrance. The way forward was barred by a double-panel gate made out of iron and reinforced steel bars; Sherlock could just make out their shapes behind the elaborate wrought-iron filigree in front of them. Pale yellow stone walls built from irregularly-shaped blocks stood on either side, each extending out for twenty feet before giving way to tall metal fence panels and stone pillars that continued on for as far as Sherlock could see. Three ornately-wrought, cast iron letter 'C's crowned the apex of the arch. The entire edifice proclaimed to passersby that the person who owned the land behind the gates had money and power to burn.

Sherlock firmly resisted the urge to snort. He'd seen better iron and stonework when he'd visited the Crossness Pumping Station, Victorian London's solution to dealing with the Great Stink. 

"I know...it's a bit much, isn't it?" Molly said aloud, catching Sherlock's eyes and giving him a wry smile at his expression. 

"Impressive, was what I was going to say," Sherlock corrected, being careful to suppress the first part of the word, rather than articulate it fully. He returned her wry smile and ran a hand through his curls, fluffing them slightly. "Is the fence like this all the way around?" Sherlock asked, his sharp eyes noting the hidden cameras mounted on the archway. He wouldn't be surprised if there were hidden cameras mounted along the fence pillars as well. 

"Pretty much," Molly replied. "The areas with the horses, certainly. Some of the fields that are used for cattle pastures are fenced with barb wire, but that's mostly the outlying acreage...you know, the canyon...places where people like to go hiking. The fence serves its purpose, though."

"Which is?"

"To make a statement...and make it difficult for people to approach the ranch unobserved." So saying, Molly pulled forward and put the truck in park before rolling down her window completely. Leaning out, she quickly typed a six-digit code into the keypad in front of the gates. Sherlock shifted, tilting his head to watch which numbers she entered and committing them to memory.

Molly didn't notice.

The gates slid open smoothly and Molly settled back into her seat. Shifting back into drive, she pulled forward, the wheels of the small truck rattling over the cattle-guard. 

"Mmmmm…What happens if somebody needs to make a delivery?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head. "Or if it's a visitor? Does she ever just leave the gate open?"

Molly shook her head. "Nope." 

"Pretty tight security."

Molly shrugged. "Well, it makes sense, considering what Ms. Ross's horses cost, not to mention her herds of cattle. She also has a few people that board their horses here, so that's a liability concern. If it's somebody who doesn't already have a keycode, they can use the intercom to call up to the office. It goes to a cell phone so it should always be answered. That's what the tour groups do."

"Tour groups?" Sherlock repeated with a raised eyebrow, his skepticism apparent.

Molly nodded. "During the summer and fall, quite a few people like to go on trail rides in the backcountry. I can understand the appeal. It's quite pretty. The 'Western Nights' tours are really popular with folks who soak up some of that 'real Old West atmosphere.'" Molly wrinkled her nose, apparently not at all taken in by the highly romanticized nostalgia for an era where antibiotics were nonexistent and systematic genocide wasn't even blinked at. 

Sherlock silently approved. 

"What are 'Western Nights?" Sherlock asked, shifting to a slightly more comfortable position. One of the seat's worn springs was starting to determinedly poke him in the arse. 

"They were the brainchild of one of Ms. Ross's ex-husbands, I don't know which one, but she kept doing them after the divorce since they turned out to be pretty lucrative," Molly explained. "Nat and Old Wayne—that's Wayne Jones—manage them now...it's a forty-five minute hayride down to the bottom of the canyon, followed by a Chuckwagon supper, live music and some storytelling. Any ranch hand that wants to participate can get a cut of the fees. It's an easy way for us to make some extra cash." Molly's tone implied that it was less of a matter of 'volunteered' and more of a matter of 'voluntold.' "Sometimes the tour groups rent out one of the bunkhouses for the weekend," Molly continued. "If it's somebody who rents out one of the canyon or river cabins for more than a weekend, Ms. Ross assigns a temporary passcode that gets deleted afterwards."

"River?" Sherlock interrupted, surprised as he looked around at the arid landscape.

"It's further east, but yes, the Prairie Dog Town fork of the Red River. It's pretty...when it's not dry or flash flooding, that is."

"I thought Texas was experiencing a drought?"

"We are," Molly replied absently, swerving slightly to avoid running over a medium-sized tortoise that was crossing the roadway in front of them. "But the worst hit areas are further south, and we've actually had a fair amount of rain this spring. That's why everything's green...well, green for this area, that is," Molly amended, after catching the raised eyebrow Sherlock sent her. "I know it's probably not very green compared to what you're used to back home in Montana." 

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock turned away to look out at the flat terrain just outside the passenger window again. 

The driveway was lined with split-rail fencing on both sides. The dusty grass between the fence line and the gravel driveway was cropped short; silent evidence of regular mowing. In the empty fields beyond the roadway, however, the grass grew unrestrained, developing into sage and tan coloured hillocks, punctuated by the odd bounding jackrabbit and distant herds of cattle. A winding line of dark-green trees in the distance marked the curve of a river or stream bed. Behind them orange and tan bluffs rose. Through the windshield, Sherlock could see three large birds circling in the cloudless blue of the empty sky. Pulling out his mobile again, Sherlock amused himself by doing a quick search, cross-referencing bird silhouettes with Texas avian species and identifying the silhouettes as belonging to Turkey vultures: a regional bird that existed almost solely on carrion. 

The grade of the road began to change as they continued to drive, going from horizontal to something with a slight, but definite incline, offering a better view of the surrounding countryside. A few moments later, the truck crested the hill and Sherlock got his first view of the ranch proper. 

It was enormous. 

The house and horse facilities were laid out at the base of a shallow valley that marked a minor, outlying arm of the surrounding canyon. In the distance, Sherlock could see high bluffs and deeper rifts that marked the location of the main canyon.

The road wound downward in a gentle curve towards the valley's bottom. At the bottom, it split. The left-hand fork became a large circular drive for an enormous two-story house with two large wings and a raised stone porch. The house and porch were constructed from the same pale yellow limestone as the ranch's outer fence line. Red roof tiles and numerous arched windows gave the entire structure a vaguely Spanish appearance. Through the truck's windshield, Sherlock could see several long log buildings, and a dozen smaller wooden structures—cabins, perhaps?—positioned behind the house, offering a good view of the distant canyon's rugged landscape. The right-hand fork of the roadway continued onward, leading to the horse ranch.

Sherlock spent a moment of grudging admiration for the planning and foresight that had obviously gone into it. 

Set south of the main house, the horse ranch consisted of a series of sturdily-built pole barns, corrals and stables. The centerpiece of the horse ranch was a large, wooden exhibition ring. Hardy, native trees, desert landscaping and benches offered shade and comfortable seating to anybody interested in watching a horse or rider inside the exhibition ring. The acreage around the exhibit ring was divided into multiple turn-out paddocks. Well-maintained pastures lay past the paddocks, eventually giving way to wild fields. 

A small herd of bay and buckskin mustangs was grazing in one pasture, their tails flicking idly at flies. Sherlock could see two horses were on guard duty, their ears pricking at the noise of the approaching truck. Further out, near one of the barns, a trio of yearlings was frisking about, racing each other along the white-painted fence, their tails and manes flying in the wind. Sherlock smiled, in spite of himself, as he watched their antics. 

"They are cute, aren't they," Molly commented, catching sight of what Sherlock was watching.

Sherlock nodded, but didn't respond, intent as he was on observing the ranch's layout.

The barns were all painted a clean white, edged with dark green trim; the rich, unfaded colour testified to regular repainting in defiance of the harsh, bleaching sun. The corrals and fences were also painted a glossy white, making them highly visible to humans and equines alike. 

Sherlock could see ranch hands moving about purposely, occupied with a variety of tasks despite the miserable outside temperature. Two men were busy unloading bales of hay from the back of a trailer while an older woman pushed a wheelbarrow full of manure and old straw towards a large pile in the distance. One of the men, hearing Molly's truck approach, looked up and waved a brief greeting before getting back to work.

Molly waved back before dropping both hands back to the steering wheel. She took the road's left-hand fork, bringing the truck to halt in front of a short flight of steps just off of the house's main porch. "Ms. Ross's office is just through there," Molly indicated with a nod of her head. "She specifically requested that you see her first thing when you arrived."

Sherlock suppressed a grimace. "Of course. What about my room accommodations?" 

"I think Ms. Ross mentioned you'll be staying in Cabin F. Something about wanting you to have a bit of privacy since you're not a regular employee? She was kinda vague about what all you'd be doing, besides working with Blaze," Molly added, obviously hinting for more information. At Sherlock's blank expression, Molly winced. "Right. Sorry. I'm being nosy again. Um, it's one of the guest cabins located behind the house," Molly continued. "Ms. Ross keeps all the cabin keys in her office, but if you'd like, I could drive your bags over and leave them on the porch so you don't have to walk so far with them Or, if you'd rather, I can just leave it in the back and drive you over when you're done talking?"

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate that," Sherlock replied, pushing back his irritation and giving her a charming smile instead. "And maybe you could also show me around if Ms. Ross doesn't?"

"Um sure!" Molly bit her lip and blushed, her cheeks turning a dark rose that almost matched her shirt. "I'll um...just go help George and Owen unload. Just...um...text me when you're done, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, shouldering his laptop case once again and exiting the truck to go meet with Ms. Ross. 

The wide, shallow steps were no match for his long legs or aching feet and Sherlock easily took them two at a time. The sooner he finished his meeting, the sooner his investigation could begin in earnest. Sherlock rapped once at the door as a nod to courtesy before gripping the knob and twisting it open. 

There was a middle-aged woman with curly, bottle-blond hair sitting behind an enormous wooden desk. A telephone was cradled between her right ear and shoulder. She alternated between typing rapidly on a wireless keyboard set in front of a pair of 27" high-definition monitors and scrawling notes in shorthand on a legal pad of paper resting off to the side. The woman looked up as Sherlock entered, an irritated expression on her face. Seeing Sherlock, however, her expression smoothed and she gave Sherlock a curt nod of acknowledgement before holding up a single finger to indicate that she'd be with him momentarily. 

Unbothered, Sherlock nodded in return, his eyes taking in the details of the woman before him. His nominal employer looked older than her sixty years. Her face weathered and lined by a lifetime of outdoor exposure to the harsh Texas sunlight that not even cosmetics could fully conceal. Like Molly Hooper, she was wearing practical ranching clothes, though in a far more subdued pattern of charcoal and white plaid. 

Her jewelry was minimal, but expensive. A thin gold chain hung around her neck, ornamented with a small gold cross. A large diamond was inset in the cross's center, which echoed the large diamond studs Candii wore in her ears. The nails on the hand holding the pen were unvarnished and clipped short; a practical decision for a woman whose overall physique indicated that she still performed arduous physical labor on a daily basis. A hat stand stood on the floor behind her, holding cowboy hats of different colors: black, cream and tan.

The desk the woman was sitting behind was an antique, if the carvings and contrasting-coloured wood inlay were any indicator. Two wood and leather-upholstered chairs sat in front of the desk. They were slightly low, designed to purposely put anybody sitting in them in a lower, and thus subordinate position. The chair behind the desk was an enormous wood and leather monstrosity, obviously the desk's mate. The computer she worked on was a state-of-the-art Apple Mac Pro computer: one that would no doubt meet Anthea's exacting standards. A steel-grey Panasonic "Toughbook" laptop rested off to the right.

Sherlock recognized the model: it was the preferred laptop used by several military branches, fire departments and heavy construction industries. One memorable video Mrs. Hudson had forced him to watch had shown the laptop still functioning after being sequentially mauled by a tiger, an elephant and a close-range shot by a .22. It wasn't surprising to find those same features valued by a stock contractor who spent the day surrounded by dust and worse. A bank of black, lateral file cabinets lined the wall behind her, their tops surprisingly uncluttered by random papers. 

Relegating Candii Ross's mutters of "mmmm" and the sounds of her typing to the back of his mind, Sherlock turned to survey the rest of the room. His first impression was that the entire space was arranged to subtly intimidate visitors with understated displays of wealth, rather than provide comfort to the primary occupant. It reminded him of nothing so much as one of Mycroft's offices. 

Light came from the room's two windows and a Spanish-style wrought iron chandelier. An antique, Tiffany-style stained glass floor lamp and a matching desk lamp were also present. The walls were panelled in a dark golden pine and surmounted with a ceiling painted a light turquoise, rather than the expected cream or boring white. Paintings of improbably-coloured horses and deer decorated the walls. 

Sherlock slowly crossed the room to peer at them more closely, the sounds of his boots muffled by the enormous, handwoven, red, black and cream-figured Navajo rug covering the wooden floor. A closer glance at the at the tightly packed threads of the warp and weft suggested that the rug was almost certainly an antique. The paintings were all original works. One oil painting bore the signature of somebody named Crumbo. Another—a Gouache piece painted on cream coloured paper—was signed with a stylized hourglass and the name of 'Adee'. Curious about the value, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and a quick search on the artists' names. The Crumbo painting was conservatively valued at twenty thousand USD for an original piece. The Antiques Roadshow appraiser mentioned that very few of Woody Crumbo's original works were owned by private individuals; the majority were owned by the Gilcrease Museum in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The Adee artwork ranged in value from several hundred dollars to several thousand, depending on the individual piece.

Dismissing them as irrelevant, Sherlock turned his attention to the next wall and the set of three, elaborately framed diplomas hanging opposite of Ms. Ross's desk. 

The oldest two were both from the internationally renowned Pyland del Rey Equestrian College in Andalusia, Spain. One awarded the holder with a degree in Equine Studies, the other for a degree for Equine Science. The third degree was a Masters in Business from Harvard University in Massachusetts. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, silently impressed. He knew from his own research that admittance to Pyland del Rey was fiercely competitive. The prestige of successfully graduating from Harvard University was comparable to graduating from the University of Cambridge or Oxford in terms of intelligence and effort required.

A distressed wooden credenza stood against the wall underneath. The top was decorated with a bowl full of rose-scented potpourri, adding a faint floral note to the scent of leather and wood that permeated the room. A few unlit candles set in antique silver holders sat on either side of the bowl, together with several photographs depicting horses rearing, running, or bucking. One or two photographs featured an older man pictured with a younger version of the woman currently seated behind the desk. There were no wedding pictures or photos of children. 

Turning away from the diplomas and photographs, Sherlock surveyed the rest of the room. A set of mounted animal horns—the Texas Longhorns Anthea had mentioned?—hung above each door. They easily measured over six feet from tip tip; the highly polished bone gleamed softly in the light cast by the wrought-iron chandelier hanging overhead. 

_Dull._

Sherlock rocked back on his heels and blew out a breath of impatience at his continued wait. After a moment, he reached towards his pocket, preparing to fire off another series of text messages. The sound of a pen being slapped down with enough force to break it stilled the motion, though. 

"No," the woman said abruptly from behind him. Her voice was surprisingly deep. "I said tomorrow. If it isn't here, then I'll make sure that your superior is informed. I can guarantee that after he gets off the phone with me, _you_ will be lookin' for a new job." 

There was a frantic babble of speech from the handset, _a man_ , Sherlock decided, _if the vocal timbre was any indicator_. 

"It damn well better be," the woman snapped, before hanging up the phone with a sharp click. She jolted down a name and a phone number on the pad of paper in front of her, before standing up and extending a hand to Sherlock. "Sherlock," she greeted him sweetly, raking his form up and down with a ruthless pair of brown eyes that belied the sugary tones of her voice. "I appreciate you bein' so patient. I'm Candii Ross. Welcome to the Triple C. I'm glad you're here."

"Mr. Holmes," Sherlock corrected her, giving her hand a quick shake and dropping the genial persona he'd assumed as part of his disguise. It was obviously unnecessary for her. The woman's grasp tightened on his, her long fingers feeling for the pressure points in an attempt at dominance. Keeping his expression bland, Sherlock returned the grip; smoothly, wordlessly communicating that he was neither intimidated, nor fooled by her sugary tones.

Releasing his hand with a faint smirk, Candii sat back down in her chair, indicating with a wave that Sherlock should also be seated. She picked up the square bottle of Fiji water sitting on the desk beside her and unscrewed the cap to take a drink. "Do you want one?" she asked, holding the bottle up.

"No."

"Suit yourself," Candii drawled, screwing the cap back on. "How was your flight?"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock told her. "Where is Devil's Blaze currently being housed?"

"Eager to get started, then?" Candii gave him a wide smile. "I like to see that in a prospective employee."

Sherlock gave her a look. "Consultant, if you please," he corrected. 

The horse-breeder's eyes flashed with annoyance, but she quickly smoothed her expression. "Pardon me, a consultant, yes. I'll hardly be paying you to muck out stalls or clean my tack, now will I?"

"No," Sherlock agreed, "you won't. Now that that's cleared up, tell me, exactly, what you want me to accomplish as far as Devil's Blaze is concerned?"

"Why Mr. Holmes," she drawled, "I think that should be obvious. I want you to get him approachable again so he can compete. Once that's done, I want you to figure out who, exactly is sabotaging my horse and reputation, and, by extension, my business."

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mycroft mentioned your suspicions of deliberate sabotage. What proof do you have?" 

"Not a damn speck right now," Candii snapped. "That's why I'm hirin' you!"

"Fair enough," Sherlock returned with a nod. "Let me rephrase: why do you have such suspicions? In your own time, but preferably quite quickly." Sherlock set his elbows on the chair's armrests and steepled his fingers together. He would have leaned back, but the brim of the ridiculous hat he was still wearing prevented it.

Candii's face was set in a frown and she spent a few moments drumming her fingers on her desk before answering. "The best I can say is it's a gut feelin'."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Can it, Mr. Holmes," the stock contractor snapped, coming to her feet and slamming both palms flat on the desk with a sudden thwap. "I ain't payin' you to disrespect me." Candii gave Sherlock a dark look, obviously waiting to see if he'd say anything in response. When he didn't, she resumed her seat as if nothing untoward had occurred. "As I was sayin', I'm suspicious because I know my horses and I know my trainers. That damn vet's accusations aside—not to mention the propaganda those damn PETA and SHARK fanatics like to sprout—Joe wouldn't dare hit one of my horses unless he was defending himself, and Blaze—no matter how feisty he was feelin'—would never attack a human if he was in his right mind."

"Molly Hooper said something along those same lines. That still doesn't explain your suspicions that somebody is deliberately targeting your business, however."

At that, Candii Ross growled, her hands flexing and curling on the desk in front of her. After a moment, she blew out an angry breath. "I've been in business for over thirty years, Mr. Holmes," she began after a moment. "I've had my share of ups and downs. Droughts, fires, the occasional tornado...they all take a toll on my bottom line. This is the first time, though, that I can recall havin' such a streak of bad luck in so short a time frame." 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in mute enquiry, inviting her to continue.

"Bad enough that my best trainer is dead and my best stallion might well end up that way. Those might just be collateral damage if the real target is my business." She grimaced and pulled open a drawer, before tossing several letters onto the desk's surface.

Sherlock leaned forward and picked them up. He unfolded the first one, absently noting the heavy stationary and the logo of the American Professional Rodeo Association, Inc., as he skimmed the letter's contents: " _Dear Ms. Ross...concerned about allegations of animal cruelty…bylaws prohibit membership to individuals that are convicted...stock contractors are potentially liable if they knowingly permit such behavior by their staff…_ " The next letter was similar: _"...allegations of animal cruelty may result in temporary suspension of membership and loss of contracts while the situation is investigated…_ " As was the one after it. All told, there were five letters, each stressing the importance of animal welfare and the potential sanctions if accusations of abuse were verified. 

"I see," Sherlock said slowly, refolding the letters and returning them to their respective envelopes. "I'll keep these for now." 

"Suit yourself," Candii shrugged, seemingly unfazed by his statement.

"Do you know how these organizations were informed about Devil's Blaze's...condition?"

"I don't," Candi replied with another grimace. "I've always been above-board...but even then, I know I've made some enemies over the years...other stock contractors that didn't get a gig...my ex-husbands because I was smart enough to demand a prenup. I suspect that damn Kitty Riley is behind this, though, or at least workin' at the behest of somebody else. She's been a thorn in my side for years, and those damn photos she posted sure as hell were given to her by _somebody._ "

Sherlock made a mental note to investigate Kitty Riley more thoroughly later. He'd glanced at her website briefly, but hadn't done much beyond noting the standard, emotionally-laden appeals to 'protect innocent animals from human cruelty' and a large button for viewers to donate. "Have you shown the letters to the detective in charge of the investigation?" Sherlock asked aloud.

"I did, but she was more interested in interrogatin' me about my filin' an insurance claim...I tried explainin' to Detective Donovan that the insurance payouts would just barely cover the loss of Blaze and would mean jack diddly if my business tanked, but she didn't seem inclined to believe me—" 

"To give Detective—Donovan you said it was?—credit," Sherlock interrupted. "I work with elite horses and even I'm confused by the value you've insured Devil's Blaze for." Sherlock reached up and removed his hat, dropping it onto the floor with a careless thump so he could lean back properly. The pressure on his bladder from the so-called tea he'd drunk earlier was becoming uncomfortable, but excusing himself to use the loo would cause him to lose face. Pride compelled him to cross his legs instead, ruthlessly suppressing the signals of his transport. Sherlock tilted his head to gaze at the businesswoman glaring at him from across her desk. "I could see Devil's Blaze's worth if he was a racehorse, such as Tapit," Sherlock continued. "His current value is estimated at one hundred twenty million USD, and he commands three hundred thousand USD in stud fees, but mustangs, however, are—to put it bluntly—common." 

At that pronouncement, Candii's eyes narrowed even further. "There ain't nothing 'common' 'bout my mustangs, Mr. Holmes." 

"Oh please," Sherlock snorted. "I researched American mustangs when Mycroft first brought your case to my attention, and the only reason I accepted were because Devil's Blaze's symptoms were so intriguing. Mustangs run wild over your country's national parks, breeding indiscriminately and wreaking ecological havoc for native species and ranchers alike. Every few years, your country's Bureau of Land Management deals with the overpopulation by rounding up the herds. The horses are then either adopted out to another reserve or sold at auction." Sherlock's shoulders rose and fell as he shrugged. "It's not unreasonable to be suspicious about a horse being insured for several hundred thousand dollars when a quick internet search reveals mustangs who can be purchased for a few hundred quid or less." 

"Yes and no, Mr. Holmes," Candii returned with a thin smile. "The problem is you, like Detective Donovan, are operating on a common misconception."

"Enlighten me then," Sherlock snapped, not at all pleased to be told he was wrong about the results of his research.

"Gladly," Candii shot back. "You, like most people, are thinking of the catch-all term for the feral horses roaming the American West. The ones that are a hodge-podge mess of Spanish, Thoroughbred, pony, draft, Quarter Horse or any other type of horse that got loose and survived long enough to join a herd and breed." Candii's lip curled in obvious disgust. "In that respect you're right: those mustangs are as common as muck and worth maybe a few hundred dollars from the wild, maybe a couple thousand if they've been trained up. My mustangs, however, are purebred Kigers. They're descended from Spanish type mustangs and are a hell of a lot rarer."

"Even if rareness is a factor, that still doesn't explain the value you're insured him for," Sherlock argued. "There generally isn't any financial benefit to be gained by breeding most heirloom animals. If there were, then American Creams or Suffolk Punch horses wouldn't be critically endangered with five hundred or fewer animals world-wide. For an equine such as an Akhal-Teke or Caspian, the value comes from the perceived beauty or prestige attached to the breed. For a dressage animal or racehorse, the perceived value is based on its abilities. Mustangs are ordinary. How much ability is attached to an animal that merely refuses to be ridden?" 

"A lot more than you think, Mr. Holmes," Candii retorted, her voice ripe with scorn. "I'm a businesswoman, not some bleeding-heart hippie. I can command the prices I do for my Kigers because they're worth it. A lot of that value comes from knowing how the pro rodeo industry works."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but remained silent, inviting Candii to continue.

"I ain't gonna bore you with the piddly details, you can research those on your own," Candii began, leaning back in her chair and propping her boots up on her desk in a casual display of nonchalance and power. "Suffice to say I know you snobby Brits look down on us Yanks what with your Royal Ascot races and funny hats and all—" 

Sherlock resisted the urge to smile at the mental image of Mycroft's face hearing the venerable sport of British racing reduced to "snobby Brits in funny hats".

"—but rodeos are a big business. Their fan base includes folks that ain't never spent a day workin' on a ranch in their life. You followin' so far?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, manfully suppressing the urge to correct Candii' Ross's appalling grammar, and shifted again slightly in his chair. "Yes," he replied simply. 

"There's a lot of tricks the organizers use to keep rodeos lucrative—excitement for the spectators bein' key. If you take a look at one of my bucking strings, you'll see that all of my mounts are showy as hell. The fact that I'm preserving the Kiger breed is a nice extra plug for sponsors who want to advertise that they're 'doin' their part to preserve the spirit of the Old West by usin' gen-u-ine Western broncos, but the real value of my mustangs comes from their reputation for performance."

"Which is?"

"Thrilling. I've spent the last twenty-five years participating in ABBA's—that's the American Bucking Bronco Association, by the way, not the band—'Bred to Buck' program. As a result, my babies are high-kicking, whiplash-inducing pieces of four-footed dynamite." The tone of Candii's voice was one that Sherlock usually associated with mothers and infants, or elderly British aristocrats and their inbred, overpriced dogs. 

" _If_ a cowboy manages to stay on one of my Kigers for the full eight seconds," Candii continued, her tone making it clear how rare an occurrence that was, "he's almost certainly guaranteed a score in the high eighties."

"And if one of your horses isn't suited to be a bronco?" Sherlock inquired, making a mental note to research how rodeo bronco scoring worked. 

Candi shrugged. "If it turns out one of my horses ain't a bucker, I've got other uses for 'em." Candii tilted her head in the direction of the photographs on the credenza. "Mustangs, by nature tend to be gentle and very intelligent. The foals and fillies that turn out to not be good bronc candidates still have value for other purposes. Their speed and agility can make them good cattle horses or barrel racers. They also have value to conservationists or folks that want bragging rights to riding a rarer horse. So, to answer your question, Mr. Holmes, I can charge the prices I do, because I've got clients willin' to pay 'em." 

Sherlock nodded sagely, committing the relevant details of Candii Ross's tirade to memory for further investigation later. "And you think somebody is deliberately targeting your business because of your successful bucking strings?"

Candii's smile thinned again. "I earned myself a position as a stock contractor on the pro circuit because of them." She paused to take another sip from her bottle of water. "I'm one of about sixty different suppliers the PCRA or Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association, Inc., contracts, and you better believe that's a coveted slot—I easily make two to three times as much off of one of my bucking strings for a single event than most stock contractors make in a year." 

Sherlock tilted his head. "How often do stock contractors get replaced, and for what reasons?"

"Generally if they get replaced, it's because their animals ain't as good as somebody else's—there's big money to be made by breedin' high quality buckin' stock. That's how I got in. Because of negative publicity and the fanatics though, rodeo organizers are downright paranoid about allegations of animal abuse and will drop a contractor in a heartbeat because of it."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'll certainly investigate Blaze's incapacitation with that in mind. Email me a list with the names you suspect. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to see Devil's Blaze myself."

"Of course." Reaching into her desk, Candii pulled out a key ring decorated with an embossed metal 'F' and tossed to Sherlock, who caught it easily. "Your lodgings," she explained. "Follow me." Standing up, Candii reached over and grabbed a hat from the free-standing rack behind her before striding away.

Picking up his own hat, Sherlock hurriedly rose and followed her. Candii's strides were long. It was a novel experience, Sherlock decided, not having to shorten his stride. 

To Sherlock's surprise, the horse breeder led him through the main part of the house, rather than through the door he'd entered by. The impromptu tour gave him an opportunity to note the house's decor. 

Leather furnishings, dark wood and cream-coloured walls predominated. The floors alternated between polished wood, red and bronze tiles. Antiques, in the form of paintings, wall hangings, rugs and statues added interesting splashes of colour to the rooms.

Everywhere he looked, Sherlock could see photographs of Candii's horses. Apparently her statement that her horses were her babies was not hyperbole. The pictures were grouped in clusters on a fireplace mantle and sitting on end tables flanking seating arrangements. They were even placed in empty spots in bookcases that existed purely for decoration, rather than for use by a serious bibliophile. Sherlock could see no other reason why somebody would voluntarily own a set of 'The American Peoples Encyclopedia,' published in 1953, though he could grudgingly admit that there was some aesthetic value to the highly recognizable (and ornate) red and gold spines.

Towards the back of the house, the furniture became more utilitarian, but the quality remained high. The floors also changed: tile and wood giving way to concrete stained a dark colour that was somewhere between dark brown and burgundy. 

They passed one door and Sherlock caught a glimpse of an enormous kitchen and the polished stainless steel and restaurant-sized cooking implements it held. Another open doorway led to a staff dining room. The wooden tables and matching wooden chairs were fairly plain, the type found in 'rustic-themed' restaurants. Rolls of paper towels, rather than proper napkins sat in vertical holders on the table tops, further confirming Sherlock's deduction.

Candii's pace didn't change as she led Sherlock through a set of extra wide double doors and down a short flight of stairs. Sherlock refused to let the burning ache in his feet manifest on his face as he followed Candii across the yard, around a large barn to a set of distant structures. 

"Permanent quarantine pens?" Sherlock asked aloud, catching sight of their target.

"Yep. I ain't taking chances with my stock."

"Intelligent choice," Sherlock commented. "Many horse owners make do with temporary quarantine pens. Few bother to consider adding shelters."

"Yeah, well most horse owners are idiots."

Sherlock's lips twitched in silent agreement. 

Rows of pungent-smelling trees screened the two fourteen-by-eighteen foot quarantine paddocks and the accompanying sixty-six foot diameter, metal round pen, shielding them from casual view by ranch visitors. As they approached, though, Sherlock could make out a flash of movement. A moment later they rounded the end of the ranch's numerous outbuildings. The stallion occupying the closest paddock raised his head, clearly smelling them, and whinnied in unmistakable challenge. 

Candii slowed to a stop and tucked her hands into her pockets. Her expression was grim. "That's him," she said unnecessarily, as Sherlock got his first full view of Devil's Blaze. 

The stallion was even more impressive in person than he'd been in the photographs and Sherlock found himself grudgingly impressed. Just watching Devil's Blaze snort and rear, Sherlock could see certain physical traits that would make him a prime candidate for Eventing, if the stallion had been properly saddle-broken and trained. 

His conformation was excellent. 

The stallion's lumbosacral joint was ideally placed to give the stallion's legs a fantastic range of motion. It no doubt contributed to his ability to buck. Massively powerful hindquarters promised both height and distance for jumps. 

Sherlock ran his gaze over the stallion's body, taking in the evidence of healed scars. There were fewer of them than he had expected, based on the photographs Mycroft had provided him. Doctor Watson was apparently deft with his needle.

"Devil's Blaze's medical records mentioned that Doctor Watson used a combination of cross-tying and the occasional mild sedation while he was undergoing his diagnostic tests. Has he been medicated with anything since he's been released back to your custody?"

Candii shook her head. "No. As tempting as it is to use Ace—" _Acepromazine_ , Sherlock automatically translated, "—Doc Watson recommended against it. It's too difficult to judge the dose of a sedative like Ace when given orally. Each horse will react differently, depending on how much they eat, or if they eat it on an empty stomach. I'm not willing to risk a penile prolapse in one of my prize studs, or a low hematocrit."

Sherlock nodded, watching the stallion circle the corral at a run. He was going to have his work cut out for him. "Why did you decide to send Devil's Blaze to Doctor Sawyer's clinic? Was it because her practice is nearby?"

"Not really. Mostly it was because that's where Doc Watson works off-season, and him I trust."

"Why?"

"Because he's got a damn good reputation on the circuit."

"Has he treated your animals before?"

Candii shrugged. "Occasionally. Accidents happen at a rodeo, despite people being careful. He's got fast hands and balls that would make a bull jealous. He came runnin' to help the moment he heard there was trouble and put his life in danger to get Blaze calmed down before he hurt himself even worse." Candii rocked back on her heels, the soles of her boots making faint crunching noises in the brittle grass. "Attitude like that goes a long way in my books. It helps that he ain't afraid of horses," Candii added, "unlike some vets."

Sherlock pursed his lips, adding that tidbit of information to the mental file on Doctor Watson he was beginning to accumulate. "How long was Doctor Sterndale your primary care vet?"

"Oh Lordy...ten years at least?" Candii's eyes narrowed in thought. "I hired him before I hired Joe Straker. I remember that much, mostly because the two of them always seemed to butt heads."

Sherlock flicked an eyebrow. "Over anything in particular?"

"Not that they'd tell me. I caught them almost coming to blows once and told them both that either they could work together, or I'd fire their asses."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock said non-committally. "Speaking of firing," he asked after a moment, "has Doctor Sterndale offered any explanation for his misdiagnosis?"

"He hasn't. He just apologized a lot and asked if I'd reconsider."

"Interesting."

"That's not the word I'd use for it," Candii snapped.

Sherlock tapped out the fingering for Beethoven's Scherzo on his left thigh as he pondered his next question. "Besides Doctor Sterndale, Doctor Sawyer, and Doctor Watson, what other vets have you used the past ten to fifteen years?"

"I used to use Doc Carthew, that was who Daddy used, but he died of a heart attack some years ago. A shame, really; he was a good vet."

Sherlock's fingers continued to move in a staccato rhythm as he looked for a clue that would give him a possible motivation. "Why did you initially hire Doctor Sterndale?"

"Because he specializes in performance animal care, which is a bit of a rarity."

"Oh?"

"Yep. Large and small animal vets are as common as cornbread. Finding a good large animal sports medicine vet is a whole 'nother story, especially one that focuses on equine sports medicine." 

At Sherlock's expression of interest, Candii shrugged. "They're ridden differently. The injuries they might get are different. Most horses ain't gonna knock themselves out by crashin' headfirst into a metal gate, but it happens with buckers. Same thing with bulls. Most bulls, if they get injured, they gonna get et. A high-caliber bucking bull like Spinal Tap or Bushwacker's gonna get thousands of dollars in medical care."

"So Doctor Sterndale handled animals for other stock contractors?" 

Candi snorted. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor Sterndale's arguably one of the most sought-after bucking animal veterinarians in the Southern U.S." She tilted her head and gave him a shrewd look. "What...You suspectin' him of somethin'?"

"It's too early to tell," Sherlock replied vaguely, watching the stallion circle the corral, "but I do want to interview him about Devil's Blaze's condition at some point in the future."

"Fair enough. That's why I hired you, after all." Turning away, Candii pulled out her phone and pressed a number on speed-dial. "Nat? What barn ya in?" 

_What barn are you currently in?_ Sherlock corrected mentally, gritting his teeth at the continued abuse of proper grammar. 

Candii waited a moment, before nodding and replying with a curt, "see you in a mo'." She hung up abruptly and turned to address Sherlock. "I'm gonna walk you down to the barns and introduce you to my ranch foreman. She'll get you situated. Come on." Without waiting for a reply, Candii turned and strode away, once again leaving Sherlock to hurry after her in his increasingly-painful boots.

A few moments later, Candii led them into the ranch's largest barn. At the end, Sherlock could see where Molly and the two men she'd waved at earlier were busily chatting as they filled feed buckets. Nearby a stocky woman with salt-and-pepper hair cut into a practical men's cut was writing notes on a clipboard. 

The shorter man was gesturing, obviously describing something he had recently seen, because his audience burst into laughter as he mimed falling over and landing on his rump. Molly's high titters carried clearly through the air, punctuated by the deeper guffaws of the taller of the two men.

"Nat!"

The clipboard woman looked up from her paperwork and immediately strode across the barn floor to meet Candii in the middle of the building. Up close, Sherlock could see traces of indigenous American ancestry on Natalie Tsedaa's face. "Ma'am?" The woman asked, her voice was a husky contralto that sounded incongruous with her current attire. Sherlock could easily imagine her singing at one of Mycroft's swanky receptions, the ones where women spent thousands of pounds on a dress that they'd wear once and the men subjected themselves to the discomfort of bow ties. Behind her, Sherlock could see Molly and the other two employees continuing with their work, but in a far more subdued fashion. 

"Nat, this is Billy Scott," Candii said bluntly, once she was close enough. "He's the new horse whisperer I've hired to work with Blaze. The staff is expected to give him their full cooperation and answer any, and I do mean any questions he may have. Billy—" 

Sherlock didn't miss her deliberate use of his alias' first name in a petty display of power. 

"This is Nat Tsedaa'. She's the foreman of the Triple C. I'll leave you in her capable hands. I want a report about your initial impressions regarding Blaze on my desk by 5:00 p.m., tomorrow." Without bothering to give Sherlock a chance to respond, Candii left, heading back to the house.

Sherlock blinked and pursed his lips, not at all pleased at being given orders.

A tentative throat clearing from behind him had Sherlock snapping back into his role with a genial smile fixed firmly on his face. He deliberately rounded his shoulders as he turned to face the waiting staff. The change in posture made him appear shorter and far less intimidating.

"Hello," Sherlock offered, once again dropping his voice back to his character's soft Northern lilt. He offered a hand to the ranch foreman. "Billy Scott, pleasure to meet you."

"You as well," the foreman returned. "Natalie Tsedaa', but you can call me Nat." She raised her hand, waving over the two men and Molly. "This is Silas Brown," she said, indicating the lanky man with a shock of white-blond hair, "and this is Socorro Valdez," she continued, pointing at the short, Hispanic man with a long mustache. "You've already met Molly."

"Indeed." Sherlock kept his smile firmly in place as he shook hands. He gave Molly a wink and she blushed. 

The ranch foreman raised an eyebrow, looking from Sherlock's face to Molly's studied nonchalance. "Molly?" Nat asked, "I know it's kinda my responsibility, but would you mind giving Billy here a tour? I've gotta finish up some timesheets in the office," Nat added, jerking a thumb back over her shoulder.

"Oh, not at all," Molly stammered. "I'd be glad to." She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind an ear.

It was a habitual gesture, Sherlock noted, grimly resigning himself to yet more walking. 

"What would you like to see first?" Molly asked, tucking her hands into her pockets. "The stock pens? The tack barn? Maybe the—" 

"Where are the ranch's veterinary supplies stored?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Um...which kind? We keep first aid kits in all of the barns...or are you talking about the drugs and such?"

"The latter," Sherlock replied impatiently. 

"That would be in our breeding and foaling barn. It's this one down here," Molly added, leading the way to a medium-sized barn located a short distance from the main horse barns. Pulling out a ring of keys, Molly unlocked the door. The door was steel and the deadbolt heavy-duty, Sherlock noted automatically. Not impossible for him to pick, but it would take him a bit longer than usual. "We keep it locked because of some of the drugs," Molly explained unnecessarily. "Dormosedan gel, Ketamine...analgesics, you know."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes rapidly scanning the space. The building was a simple rectangle with high ceilings that had been divided into multiple sections. A large, poured concrete aisle, complete with drains ran down the middle. Three oversized-box stalls occupied one end of the barn. A breeding pen containing the requisite dummy mare for semen collection and a breeding stand occupied one corner. The other corner was walled off to create a small room. 

Without bothering to ask for permission, Sherlock opened the room's door, revealing a rudimentary lab, complete with a refrigerator, a microscope, boxes of medical supplies and several stainless steel counters. A small row of specimen jars sat off to the side. Curious, Sherlock walked over to investigate them more closely. 

The first one contained an enormous tapeworm. The second contained some sort of tumor. The third contained the lower portion of a horse's front leg. The coronet of the hoof was so badly overgrown, it was curving up and around in a corkscrew horn. Sherlock leaned closer, absolutely fascinated. 

"Um...sorry...I know those can be a bit off-putting," Molly said from behind him.

"It's fine," Sherlock replied, straightening back up, and walking back to where Molly was watching him anxiously. The lab was more primitive than he'd care for, but with the equipment he'd packed, it would allow him to perform at least a few tests until he somehow secured access to a proper lab. "Who all has access to this space?"

"Me...Ms. Ross, and Doctor Sterndale, well, until Ms. Ross fired him, that is. Other people will be here when a mare's foaling, or if semen is being collected, but other than that, we keep it locked."

"You mentioned your vet tech certifications. Did you ever assist Doctor Sterndale when he was here?"

"Sometimes, when he needed another set of hands, that is. I'd occasionally be called on to help him stitch a wound when one of the yearlings got too rowdy, draw blood, swab out a mouth abscess, that sort of thing."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, deciding to wait on other questions until he'd done some more research so as to avoid arousing unnecessary suspicion. "Where to next?" Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, taking a moment to relieve the pressure on his toes.

"The foals?" Molly suggested. "I noticed you looking at them."

"Of course," Sherlock agreed pleasantly, watching Molly carefully lock the door behind them. 

As they walked, Sherlock kept shooting Molly sideline glances, mentally deducing the circumstances responsible for her change in demeanor. At the airport and during the drive, she'd reminded him of nothing so much as a mouse—timid, quiet, with the occasional dash of spunk. Now, back at the ranch, she extruded quiet confidence, backed with competence as she led Sherlock down asphalt paths designed to making moving wheelbarrows and wagons easier to haul, and through different buildings. 

_Upright posture...no stammer,_ Sherlock observed silently, as he continued to file away Molly's comments about the ranch. _Veterinary experience respected by peers as evidenced by her being asked to look at the swelling on a mare's leg. Self-confidence increases in response to proximity to animals and areas of expertise..._

"—the border horses are in here," Molly continued as she opened a small door, effectively distracting Sherlock from his chain of thought. Sherlock blinked, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim interior. 

Roughly three-fourths of the stalls had nameplates affixed to the doors and Sherlock raised a silent eyebrow as he read some of the monikers: Speedy, Cabaret, (somebody had scrawled 'Cabbie' underneath), Pink Lady Apple...Bluebell... Midnight Blue Serenity...Buckingham 'Bucky' Palace...

"We're responsible for making sure they get fed, groomed and exercised daily," Molly continued, distracting Sherlock from his reading, "though we never take them out on the trails: strictly paddock and horse exerciser because of liability concerns. We have a traditional halter walker and a European-style horse exerciser that lets them move more naturally. This is also where the staff keeps their horses," Molly added, stopping before one of the less-desirable stalls at the very end of the barn. "This is Toby; he's mine," she explained, reaching up to pet the nose of the affectionate Pinto gelding that stuck his head over the door with a soft whicker at the sound of her voice.

"What breed?" Sherlock asked, stepping forward at Molly's invitation and blowing air gently towards the horse's nostrils to give the animal his scent. Turning his head, Sherlock studied the horse's conformation and size. "Missouri Foxtrotter?

"Yes, actually," Molly replied, with evident surprise. "I bought him off of somebody who decided he was too old to keep showing. He's perfect for relaxed trail rides and the occasional bit of fancy work." Molly reached out and ran an affectionate hand over the gelding's neck, garnering a whicker of contentment from Toby. "You're welcome to ride him, if you like," Molly offered. "He likes you."

Indeed the gelding was resting his nose against Sherlock's sternum, eyes closed and ears relaxed in obvious contentment as Sherlock ran his hands along the horse's neck and through his mane. 

"What style?" Sherlock asked without much hope. "Western or English?"

"Um, English actually," Molly replied.

Sherlock turned to look at her, his surprise apparent.

Molly flushed and shrugged her shoulders before tucking her hands back into her pockets. "I told you; he used to be a show horse."

"True, you did," Sherlock replied. He gave Toby one last skritch before stepping back. "Shall we?"

"Um, sure."

Molly spent a few more moments showing him around. She showed him the location of tack barn, (dull), where the large ranch machines were kept (obvious), and she prattled on unnecessarily about the history of the ranch, (utterly irrelevant). By the time they arrived back at Molly's truck, Sherlock was finding it increasingly difficult to walk without limping.

Sherlock climbed into his passenger side, firmly repressing a grateful sigh as Molly drove them around the house and to the cabins he'd spotted earlier. She stopped in front of the last one. It was enough distance from the house to afford him greater privacy, Sherlock noted thankfully as he unloaded his suitcase from the truck bed.

"Here you are," Molly chirped, pushing the door to the cabin open and gesturing for Sherlock to precede her. The blast of surprisingly cool air was a welcome change to the baking heat outside. Reaching out Molly toggled on an overhead light. "I hope it's big enough for you."

"It's fine," Sherlock replied with the automatic politeness of his role, while his eyes scanned the space before him.

The cabin was small, measuring 24'x18' at the most, not counting the front porch. The front door opened onto a large room with a gabled, wood-panelled ceiling, giving him the feeling of being inside a wooden crate. A medium-sized stone fireplace built of the same pale yellow stone he'd seen elsewhere on the ranch was set into the exterior wall on his left. A small kitchenette, complete with cabinets and a small cooktop was laid out at the back of the cabin. The wall to his immediate right contained three doors, all closed. 

The small space would have been bearable, comfortable even, but every inch was decorated in what Mrs. Hudson would have charitably described as 'kitsch': a large spotted cowhide, serving as a rug covered the floor. A coat rack made from horseshoes and a weathered piece of wood hung beside the front door. A few pictures depicting sunsets, horses running and idealized landscapes hung on the wall, their frames made out of the same weathered wood. A battered sofa sat in front of the fireplace, the ugly brown upholstery somewhat disguised by several throw pillows and the large blue, white, and black woven saddle blanket draped over the back. For some reason, somebody had elected to hang an old saddle and bridle on the wall. Several chintzy china figures of horses and cowboys sat on the mantel. Above it, centered in the pride of place was an enormous, ten-gallon cowboy hat painted with the stars and stripes of the American flag. The phrase "In God We Trust" was inscribed in careful, repeating letters around the brim. It was flanked by two other flags: one was the American flag, the other a simpler pattern, but also in red, white and blue.

Sherlock blinked, barely managing to keep his revulsion at the horrible decor in check. He'd stayed in places that were far worse. 

"I know, it's nice, isn't it?" Molly said cheerfully, apparently unaware of his reaction. She pointed at the closest door, the one Sherlock was standing beside. "The bedroom's through there. The middle door is the coat closet, and the door at the back is the bathroom," she continued, indicating each door in turn. "There are two window A/C units that Juana obviously started for you already. Feel free to crank them down if you need. I know Texas is a quite a bit hotter than what you're probably used to."

"Indeed," Sherlock said dryly.

Molly flushed, but continued gamely on. "Clean towels are in the bathroom for guests to use. Juana will have made the bed up, but there are extra blankets in the center closet in case you get cold, and extra towels there too. Dinner's at six up at the main house, so I...guess I'll leave you to settle in?"

"If you don't mind," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to add a smile he didn't feel. "I'm thinking about taking a shower since you mentioned it...clean up a bit and all."

"Oh! Um...I'll...just...let you do that…" Molly brushed a few wisps of hair out of her eyes. "I'll...um...see you at dinner." Giving Sherlock one last hesitant smile, she left, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. Sherlock could hear the clatter of her boots across the wooden porch, followed by the faint crunch of gravel as she walked off.

" _Finally_ ," Sherlock huffed, reaching out and grabbing the cord to lower the cheap black blind mounted over the front room's single window. A few seconds of fiddling with the stick and he had the blind fully closed, darkening the room and, more importantly, screening him from the curious eyes of passersby. 

Privacy assured, Sherlock's first action was to remove his offending footwear, throwing the despised boots at the thick wooden walls with more force than was strictly necessary. They were followed by the irritatingly thick boot socks he'd been wearing underneath. Sighing in relief, Sherlock flexed his bare toes against the wood floor, before rubbing the top of first one foot, then the other against the denim of his jeans to remove feel of damp, nubby fabric from his feet. He obviously needed to purchase some different socks. Woolen socks were not suitable for Texas weather. He was going to have some underling's _hide_. 

Barefoot, Sherlock proceeded to explore the small space that would be his home for the foreseeable future. 

He bypassed the first two doors, heading straight for the indicated loo. The closed door led to a small bathroom with a generously-sized combination tub-and-shower, a wall-mounted sink and white toilet with a wooden lid. The immediate demands of his transport dealt with, Sherlock washed his hands and then washed his face in the cool water. 

The flash of pain as he bumped a heel against open door had him swearing, and Sherlock sat down on the closed lid of the toilet to examine his feet more carefully. Fully-formed blisters had appeared on the backs of both heels, and the sides and undersides of both little toes. Fortunately, a quick check of the medicine cabinet revealed a box of plasters, as well as a tube of ointment labeled as a combination analgesic and antibiotic. 

After he'd finished doctoring his feet, Sherlock spent a moment investigating the closet, confirming that contained the promised spare towels, as well as extra rolls of paper for the loo, before opening the remaining door which led to the cabin's single bedroom. Leaning against the doorframe, Sherlock surveyed the space contained within dispassionately. 

Here, at least, the decor was moderately acceptable. 

There were two small windows, one on the east wall, that would offer a view a distant pond when daylight was present. The one facing south looked back towards the house, offering the same view as one in the cabin's main room. Both windows were hung with the same black blinds and curtained in a dark red fabric patterned with small flowers. _Calico_ , came the irrelevant bit of information.

The bed was a double, centered under the southward facing window. The frame was made of of some sort of heavily varnished pale wood. The headboard was comprised of several, heavily-varnished cow horns somehow attached together in an arrangement that bore more than a passing resemblance to tentacles. Mercifully there was no footboard. Bad enough that he would be sleeping in a too-short bed without having to worry about jamming a toe in the middle of the night if he tossed or turned. The top blanket was a patchwork quilt—another replica, rather than an actual antique. Years of acquaintance with Mrs. Hudson had taught him how to recognize the difference.

Two plain wooden nightstands, each topped with a small lamp stood sentinel on either side of the bed. Two narrow, Navajo-style rugs—both replicas, rather than antiques—covered the floor flanking the bed, while a larger, matching rug picked out in the same black, red and cream pattern carpeted the area between the foot of the bed and the folding doors leading to the bedroom's closet. Inside the closet, he found two hanger bars set at different heights, an assortment of empty shelves and several empty drawers, obviously intended for guest use.

Mercifully, the room's only decorations were two small woven tapestries, both depicting highly-stylized human figures picked out in red, black and gray against a tan background 

Sherlock retrieved his bags from where he'd left them beside the front door and spent a few tedious minutes unpacking. His toiletries, including his hair product, went into the bathroom, while his shirts, jeans, socks, and pants all went into the closet. After a moment's deliberation, Sherlock opted to leave his chemicals and lab equipment in his locked suitcase. It wouldn't do for them to be inadvertently discovered by the housekeeper.

Unpacking complete, Sherlock retrieved his laptop and power cord from his computer bag and returned to the front room. 

A small island and several wooden stools loosely divided the space between the kitchenette and the cabin's main room. Sparing a wistful thought for his comfortable chair and couch back at Baker Street, Sherlock set his laptop on the tiled surface and opened it. While the computer booted up, Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and reached into his computer bag to pull out one of his boxes of nicotine patches. He slapped one on and after a moment of silent deliberation added a second. By his reckoning, he had roughly forty-five minutes before he would be expected at dinner, and he fully intended to use that time researching the names that Ms. Ross and Molly had given him against the files Mycroft had supplied. 

Hours passed. 

__A sudden sharp stab of pain in his stomach, accompanied by a growl of hunger, brought Sherlock back to himself. Blinking, Sherlock looked up from the computer where he'd been researching how bucking bronco scores were determined. The sun had set and the only illumination in the room came from the computer screen. With a frown, Sherlock glanced down at the watch on his left wrist. It was far past midnight, almost three in the morning. Sherlock blinked again and then stood, his muscles protesting at the movement after being still for so many hours._ _

__Mindful of where he was stepping, Sherlock opened the cabin's front door and walked outside. The lights in the main house were all off, as were the lights for the other cabins and the buildings Molly had identified as staff and guest bunkhouses. In the distance Sherlock could make out the faint orange glow of the exterior barn lights. Molly had pointed out the different lights when they'd walked by. Orange for general safety, bright white in case of a problem._ _

__No other humans were visible._ _

The so-called peaceful countryside was surprisingly noisy; far noisier than London seemed to be. The clicks and rasps of a multitude of insects filled the air, punctuated with the odd howl or screech from some other animal. Breathing deeply, Sherlock sat down on the porch steps and looked up at the sky. 

It was a solid swath of deep, velvety black filled with countless stars. It had been a long time since he'd seen so many, so clearly. London's light pollution meant that he only saw the very brightest ones when the night was especially clear. A brighter swath of light stood out. _The Pilgrim's Way or the Straw Path, also known as the Milky Way Galaxy,_ his mind automatically supplied. One of the few pieces of useless trivia he'd learned from Victor that refused to delete itself, despite their relationship, (if it could even be called that), ending almost ten years ago. 

Annoyed with the sudden pang of melancholy, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked back inside. 

His stomach growled again, reminding him that the last thing he'd eaten had been a sickeningly-sweet, oversized sticky bun covered with a sticky white glaze. As much as he was loath to admit it, the demands of his transport for sustenance after his trip were overriding his normal reluctance to eat when on a case. 

Still barefoot, Sherlock padded over to the rudimentary kitchen that occupied one wall of the main living area. He hadn't bothered to investigate it earlier, being more concerned with setting up a secure internet connection so he could hack into the business files for the Triple C. There was a microwave, a battered toaster and a small, black mini-fridge in addition to the cooktop and cabinets. Crouching down, Sherlock pulled open the refrigerator's door and surveyed the contents with a dubious expression. They consisted of a package of flour tortillas, a half-dozen eggs, two cartons of yogurt and a few packets of hot sauce. The alleged freezer on the top shelf contained a bag of generic ground coffee, a package of shredded cheddar cheese and nothing else. 

Closing the refrigerator, Sherlock turned his attention to the upper cupboards. They were mostly bare. The one over the tiny stove held only a few tins of soup, a couple cans of beans, a jar of peanut butter, another jar of something labeled 'mild salsa' and a box of crackers. 

Frowning, Sherlock turned his attention to the next cupboard over, the one mounted on the other side of the sink. Instead of food, it contained a small assortment of dishes: cheap Corelle plates, known for their durability more than anything, a mismatched assortment of tumblers, some that looked like jam jars, and a few bowls. A quick check of the drawers under the counters turned up a battered selection of metal and plastic cutlery. A wine key, a few plastic straws, a metal nutcracker were stored in one drawer, while the next drawer over contained a selection of rudimentary cooking implements. The lower cabinets contained a cast iron skillet, two pots, and a badly-stained aluminium tray. They were gratifyingly empty of dead bugs, a testimony to the housekeeper's efforts. 

But there were no boxes of tea. 

With a growl, Sherlock slammed the cupboard doors shut. He spent a moment mentally arguing with himself over the merits of coffee versus storming up to the house and demanding a proper box of tea and a kettle. His stomach rumbled again and with another glare, Sherlock abandoned his quest for tea in favor of dealing with his transport. Sherlock jerked open the door to the fridge to retrieve one of the cartons of yogurt, wrinkling his nose at the 'low fat!' descriptor on the label. He spooned the gelatinous contents into his mouth quickly, grimacing at the taste of the artificial strawberry flavor. Unpalatable, but better than nothing. He followed it with a tortilla slathered with peanut butter, rather than proper bread, (another oversight he was going to raise with his host). 

Unbidden, a yawn forced itself past Sherlock's lips. Giving into exhaustion, he powered down his laptop and grabbed one of the spare boxes of nicotine patches he kept in his computer bag before walking into the bedroom. He tossed the box on the far nightstand and promptly shed his shirt, jeans, and pants, abandoning them on the floor in a heap of crumpled fabric. He set his mobile down on the closest nightstand, after confirming that it had enough charge to see him through the next two days. 

Naked, Sherlock flopped diagonally across the bed with a groan. It was the only way his head and feet would both fit on the mattress. He grabbed a fresh nicotine patch from the box he'd brought with him and slapped it onto his arm, not bothering to remove the two spent patches. Folding his hands together, palms facing, Sherlock exhaled deeply as he settled into his thinking pose, analyzing what he'd learned since he'd landed in Texas. 

Candii Ross was a bully. Rich enough to afford what she wanted and self-centered enough to make life miserable for those that opposed her. That she was not well-liked by her staff was obvious, but she was shrewd enough to pay them a solid wage and provide amenities and benefits that made leaving or being fired an unattractive alternative. Her suspicions about her ex-husband, as far-fetched as they seemed, merited at least a cursory investigation. Revenge by an ex-spouse on a hapless animal was depressingly common, as he'd found out in the racing industry. There were also her suspicions about the animal rights activists. 

Sherlock grimaced. If nothing else, a phone call to the police detective in charge of the investigation would be helpful for eliminating possible suspects. Picking up his phone, Sherlock fired off a quick text to Anthea asking her to email him the detective's contact information and copies of whatever investigative reports Detective Donovan had written. It would be faster than finding it himself. 

Text sent, Sherlock laid his mobile back down on the wooden surface with a soft click and resumed his thinking pose. 

Candii Ross's opinion of his intelligence notwithstanding, Sherlock took his investigations seriously. He'd researched the history of rodeos at the same time he was busy memorizing the terminology his character would need. Much of the slang cowboys used was bizarre, making it incomprehensible to outsiders. The American practice of referring to castrated male bovines as 'doggies' was just one example. The knowledge would be useful in the short term, but he was looking forward to deleting the entire mass from his mind palace once the case was concluded. He was also quite aware that rodeos had developed an international following: humans were obsessed with finding ways to entertain themselves. The fact that specially-themed Country Western pubs, complete with functional mechanical bull riding machines, even existed in the UK was ample evidence of the rodeo's popularity. 

He'd also made a point of researching why an individual might voluntarily climb on top of a 140 stone animal to participate in what was referred to by some as "the world's most dangerous sport," putting it in the same risk category as Buzkashi and bull running. Buzkashi was a horseback based sport where riders attempted to grab a goat carcass and dragging it to a goal, using whips, fists and their horses as weapons. The Running of the Bulls was exactly what it sounded like: a large crowd of idiots gathered on a narrow street to be voluntarily chased by a herd of angry, stampeding bulls. 

The motivations, as far as he'd been able to determine, were depressingly pedestrian: easy money, fame, and increased reputations for sexual prowess. The fact that replicas of bull and bronco riding champion belt buckles were readily available for purchase from various internet sites was evidence of that fact. If a rider could successfully remain on his (and it was his, female bucking competitions were a thing of the past) mount for his entire eight-second ride, he could potentially win several hundred, if not several thousand dollars. At larger competitions, the prizes were even highly lucrative. The National Finals Rodeo, or NFR, awarded approximately six million dollars in prize money to its competitors. The top bareback bronco rider from the previous year had earned a purse of over one hundred seventy thousand pounds or two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars, while the top saddle-bronc had claimed slightly less (one hundred twenty-five thousand pounds or approximately one hundred sixty thousand dollars). The Professional Bull Rider's Association, or PBR, was even more generous, they paid a million dollar prize annually to their bull riding champion. 

He had also learned that in both bull riding and bronc riding events, a rider's total score was based on the performance of both the animal and the rider. Riders were supposed to demonstrate their control of the situation with fluid movements and spurring action. The animals were judged on how exciting a ride they provided. A low-scoring horse or bull would run or buck half-heartedly. A high-scoring horse or bull would buck, leap, spin, and twist with lots of high-kicking action. A 'rank' bull or horse was an animal considered almost impossible to ride, often throwing competitors in five seconds or less. Two judges each awarded two separate scores: 1-25 points for the rider and 1-25 points for the horse. The four scores were added together at the end to give the total score for a competitor's ride. 

Despite what the casual viewer might believe, some strategy was involved. 

Traveling on the rodeo circuit was expensive, but for some competitors, it was how they earned their livelihood. A rider's best hope of winning was to be paired with an exciting, aggressive horse and hope that the cumulative score was the highest in the division. Since horses were randomly assigned, riders ran the risk of drawing an animal that would not perform well. It was possible for competitors to pay a fee and be assigned a different horse, but it wasn't an option popular with the stock contractors because it reflected poorly on them. 

What he _hadn't_ known until he'd begun his research was how corporate sponsors and televised broadcasts had changed the very nature of the sport. 

Sherlock shifted slightly on the mattress as he continued to think. The influx of money and publicity had morphed what had once been a humble, informal showcase of the practical day-to-day skills required by Spanish and Mexican ranch hands into an entertainment industry with a constant thirst for bigger, better, more aggressive animals to feed the audience's need for excitement. It had resulted in a positive feedback loop between competitors, stock contractors, event organizers, and sponsors. The competitors wanted animals that would score higher, the stock contractors wanted animals that would earn them money and the event organizers and sponsors wanted a show that people would pay to see.

Sherlock blew out a breath as he followed another mental thread. 

The push for more exciting animals was nothing new. Sometime during the 1920s, a show business-savvy individual had decided to introduce Brahman bulls into bull riding competitions. The subsequent popularity of Brahman bulls had not only resulted in more exciting bull rides, it had also resulted in far more risk to the cowboys. Brahman bulls were far more ferocious than the bulls, cows, and steers that had been previously used. They could and would attack anything in their way, whether it was a cowboy on horseback attempting to corral the bull through the exit gate, or an injured rider lying helpless on the ground.

The very real possibility of a rider being killed by an out-of-control bull had redefined another facet of the rodeo industry, the role of the rodeo clown. In the beginning, they'd been hired to keep the paying audience amused between events. After the introduction of the Brahma bull, however, they'd evolved from a simple crowd entertainer into a trained athlete that was more accurately described as a bullfighter (except unlike bulls in Spain, rodeo bulls lived; they were simply chased away from the injured rider on the ground). 

A man named Homer Holcomb had been the person who'd started the change. He had been the first rodeo clown to deliberately throw himself into harm's way to distract bulls, buying injured riders precious time to escape to safety. Other clowns had followed suit, gaining prestige and a reputation as something only the best of the best cowboys would attempt to make a living at. 

Sherlock scrunched his closed eyes and jerked his head sideways in a spastic twitch to refocus his thought process. He needed to concentrate on stock contractors, not the peripheral individuals affected by their actions. 

Rodeos were about excitement and bragging rights. Originally, the animals used for competitions had been whatever a rodeo organizer could scrounge up: steers, bulls, wild mustangs, badly broken horses and the like. As rodeos became monetized, however, the job of collecting animals for competition became the province of professional stock contractors, rather than rodeo organizers. They were the ones that sought out difficult animals for competitions or deliberately introduced animals that were more dangerous than normal. 

In most equine sports, bucking was trained out of horses, and dangerously aggressive bovines sent to the slaughterhouse. In the rodeo world, however, high quality bucking animals were considered professional athletes. Some were capable of earning their owners hundreds of thousands of pounds— _dollars_ , Sherlock mentally corrected—a year.

Candii Ross had claimed that her horses were 'four-footed pieces of dynamite.' The records Sherlock had uncovered backed up her claims. 

A quick internet search had resulted in numerous video clips of bucking horses in action. He had spent a good thirty minutes studying how horses from the Triple C compared to horses from other suppliers. He'd also found bucking statistics posted for different rank horses and rank bulls, some of which mentioned Candii's horses by name. On Candii's computer, Sherlock had found spreadsheet after spreadsheet filled with information about individual rodeos. They had contained information about the horses used in an event's bucking string, notes on whether or not they were ridden successfully, and the names of event winners. 

According to his research, the average stock contractor made between sixteen thousand to twenty-six thousand pounds, (twenty-five thousand to forty-thousand dollars), annually supplying livestock for rodeo events. As an elite supplier, however, Candii Ross earned considerably more. Her horses were the backbone of her business, and she spared no expense when it came to caring for them.

Certainly the digital invoices he'd examined for veterinary expenses detailed that fact. Vaccinations, surgery to remove a bone spur from a mare's hock, deliveries, acupuncture, ultrasounds...the enormous bill from Doctor Sawyer's clinic detailing Devil's Blaze's diagnostic tests… Annually, it added up to thousands of dollars in expenses, which made Doctor Sterndale's idiotic misdiagnosis all the odder.

Why would a reputable vet risk losing a lucrative client? 

Opening his eyes, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, as if the wooden panels could offer him the insight he sought. 

In light of the financial data he'd reviewed and Candii Ross's comments, he'd have to investigate the vets—all of them—more thoroughly. Just because the Triple C wouldn't benefit from the death of Devil's Blaze, didn't mean that somebody else wouldn't.

Was it possible that a rival stock contractor had bribed Doctor Sterndale to euthanise Devil's Blaze? Or perhaps Doctor Sawyer, considering the letters Candii Ross had received afterwards outlining penalties for animal abuse? The data that Anthea had supplied hadn't revealed anything unusual, but that didn't mean there wasn't something there for him to find. 

There was also the possibility that Kitty Riley or one of her ilk could be behind Ms. Ross's sudden misfortune. Deliberately injuring an animal would go against their mantra of respecting the value of animal lives, but there was logic in sacrificing one animal to serve the needs of the many. Sherlock tapped his fingers against his lips, eyes narrowed in thought as he pursued the tangential line of reasoning. He was quite aware of why many animal rights activists maintained their allegations that rodeos were inherently cruel to animals. The very nature of the sport was rough: lassos, sudden stops, animals being thrown to the ground, noise, and the deep-set revulsion of animals being used for entertainment or profit. 

And rodeo animals hadn't always been well treated.

In the early days, bucking animals—bulls especially—had been cast as the rodeo villains. There were no time limits or bucking chutes. Instead, an animal would be blindfolded and led to the center of a ring until either it, or the human had enough. Individual rides could last ten minutes or more, and sometimes the horse or bull or steer in question would be ridden by subsequent cowboys. The result would be an exhausted animal, bloody from spurring and hard-pressed to continue fighting: a demonstration of humanity's mastery over 'dumb beasts'. In the modern era, some less-scrupulous stock handlers at unsanctioned events might rely on electric prods, unpadded flank straps, metal burrs, sharp spurs to antagonize an animal and elicit certain, more aggressive behaviors, but it was almost unheard of at sanctioned events.

Many states had outlawed such practices. The Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association and numerous other professional rodeo organizations prohibited the use of pain-causing tools altogether, regardless of local laws, stressing their commitment to humane treatment and animal health. Despite the evidence, however, animal welfare groups such as PETA continued to spread misinformation about rodeo animals generally being tame creatures that were provoked into battle. It was an idea that made Sherlock snort in derision. There'd been at least three cases in the past two months in Britain alone of hikers being trampled by cattle, sometimes fatally. The claims that horses bucked because their genitals were being crushed was patently untrue, but humans were infamous for twisting the facts to suit their theories, rather than revising their theories to suit facts. 

Sherlock blew a long breath out through his nose. He'd have to spend some time in the next few days investigating Kitty Riley's website on the chance that she was somehow involved. If he could track down where she got her photographs, it might provide insight into Blaze's current condition. Tapping his index fingers against his lips, he shifted his focus from Devil Blaze's owner to the horse itself. He would know more once he'd had a chance to observe Devil's Blaze closely for an extended length of time, but so far, nothing on the ranch indicated that any of the animals received anything less than exceptional care. 

During the tour Molly had given him, he'd noted that the barns were well built. The food was high-quality grain and hay, supplemented with vitamin powders. Fresh water was supplied via an automatic watering system. Judging by the way that the bronco herds had responded when he and Molly had approached one of the paddocks, they were clearly used to being approached by humans and treated well. He'd encountered many, many frightened and abused horses in his travels. Some had responded by becoming paranoid of humans, refusing to let anybody approach them lest they be hurt again. Others responded by becoming aggressive, lashing out with hooves and teeth when approached. Some circled the corral at run, responding to the flight instinct.

But he'd never, in all of his years as an equine consultant, encountered a horse that attacked and killed a human and practically dismembered the resultant corpse.

Sherlock's lips stretched in delight. _It was a decided mystery_ , he thought, before grudgingly surrendering to sleep. 

~ * ~


	5. Coffee, Toast, and Bloodstains

~ * ~

_Dee dee deedle dee, dee dee deedle dee, dee dee deedle dee, dee dee deedle—_

Groaning, Sherlock rolled over and fumbled on his nightstand for his ringing phone. "Scott," he rasped, remembering at the last minute to use his alias in case it was somebody other than his brother or his brother's minions. "What do you want?"

There was a decided pause on the other end of the line, before Molly's tentative voice came through. "Mr. Scott? It's Molly. Um…I don't know what time you normally get up, but here, the cook serves breakfast at six…It's almost six fifty…would you like me to save you a plate? I noticed you didn't make it to dinner yesterday…are you feeling okay?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment against the beams of light stabbing through the blinds. With a grunt, he opened them again and sat up, scrubbing his free hand through his tangled curls. "Yes…sorry…," he muttered, slipping back into his Montana accent as his brain finished coming back online. He took a moment to stretch, relaxing the tight muscles caused by sleeping on a substandard bed. "Ugh…traveling is exhausting and I was feeling a bit poorly yesterday evening. A plate would be splendid, Molly," Sherlock continued, more graciously. "Thank you." 

"Are you vegetarian?" Molly's voice was muffled. Over the phone, Sherlock could hear the sounds of clanking and thumping, as well as the chatter of voices in the background. _Male and female voices both,_ he cataloged absently. 

"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'p' for emphasis, as he stood up and reached for the pair of jeans he'd tossed on the floor last night, before dropping them back on the floor and walking over to the closet to fetch a clean pair of black silk boxer briefs first. If he had to wear denim, at least he was going to wear quality pants underneath. 

"I'm in the kitchen right now." Molly informed him as Sherlock pulled on his pants, contorting himself awkwardly to keep the phone held between his right shoulder and cheek. "Juana likes me, so she'll let me make up an extra plate. We've got eggs, sausage, biscuits and sausage gravy…grits…tortillas…salsa…fresh fruit…What would you like?"

 _Biscuits and sausage gravy?_ Sherlock blinked at the disgusting-sounding combination as he bent over to retrieve his discarded jeans and pull them on, his nose wrinkling at the sensation of cheap cotton rubbing against his sensitive skin. "Just toast with butter," Sherlock answered, leaving his jeans unbuttoned as he walked back to the closet with a frown to select a fresh shirt. 

The clothing he'd packed had been chosen to mimic what the other ranch hands would likely be wearing. It wouldn't do to stand out as anything other than a skilled horseman, though he had made sure to pack two bespoke suits on the off chance he needed to intimidate somebody. After a moment's consideration, Sherlock selected a sage green and brown plaid shirt that would blend in with the landscape, making it easier for him to watch people unobserved. "And coffee," Sherlock continued, shrugging the garment on and buttoning it without bothering to put vest on underneath. "Black, two sugars."

There was another significant pause before Molly spoke again. "Just toast and coffee? Are you sure?"

"Positive," Sherlock replied, resisting the urge to snap. He needed to remain in Molly's good graces, for access to her lab if nothing else. Tucking the phone more securely between his chin and shoulder, he sat down on the bed and quickly reapplied a fresh batch of protective plasters to his feet. "I don't normally eat a large breakfast when I'm working with dangerous horses," Sherlock explained, carefully pulling on a set of clean boot socks over the bandages. "Digestion slows me down." Leaning forward, he picked up his left boot and slid it on with a disgusted expression. He followed it with the right and then stood up to finish stamping them into place.

"If you're sure," Molly replied, her tone decidedly skeptical. "I'll ask Juana if she'll make you some. Um…do you want white or wheat?" 

"Wheat. I'll be there in five minutes." Sherlock hung up his phone with a decided click and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans to finish getting ready. 

Fly zipped and shirt tucked in, Sherlock left the bedroom to brush his teeth and make use of the loo. After a dubious glance at the bright sunlight pouring in through the bath's single window, he opted to apply the sun cream Mrs. Hudson had insisted he pack. 

_"The south? Oh, you'll fry, dear!"_ Mrs. Hudson had told him, pressing the tube into his hand as Sherlock packed. _"All that sun! Why, I remember the first time I was down on the beach in Florida, wearing a tiny yellow bikini—it was the '50s, you know—needless to say I was quite popular with the young men, but oh, the sun! Utterly unlike it is here…you don't want to burn and peel, do you, love?"_

Sherlock wiped his hands on the hand towel, endeavoring to remove the greasy residue the sun cream had left on his palms. With a final quick glance around the cabin, he retrieved his hat from the rack by the door and shut the door behind him, locking it with the key that he'd been given. 

A collie, sniffing along one of the fence lines, spotted him and barked as Sherlock stepped off the porch. Abandoning its investigation, it ran towards him, tongue lolling and tail wagging as it eagerly began sniffing him, thrusting its pointed nose into Sherlock's crotch in the manner of large dogs everywhere. 

Dropping slowly into a crouch, Sherlock extended his hand, fingers closed, allowing the dog to sniff. Reaching out, he gently scrubbed his fingers though the collie's thick ruff. With a happy groan, the dog fell over and rolled onto its back—her back, Sherlock's mind automatically corrected—one hind leg thumping madly as Sherlock continued petting her. She wiggled, tongue lolling in a canine grin and groaning happily in response to Sherlock's experienced ministrations. 

Smiling, Sherlock reached out and took ahold of the dog's blue nylon collar, turning it so he could read the tag. 'Bonnie' it read. Unoriginal to the extreme, but at least not as plebian as the name 'Lassie.' Sherlock suppressed a grimace at the memory. Mrs. Hudson had made him watch the movie with her once as a punishment for leaving a pair of his riding boots in the foyer for her to trip over and almost fall. Sherlock had learned to take more care with his clutter, (at least as far as entrances and egresses were concerned), but the annoying bit of trivia refused to be deleted, taking up valuable space on his mental hard drive. 

"Bonnie, hmmmm?" Sherlock remarked, dismissing the memory and continuing to rub the dog's chest, absently noting the lack of burrs, ticks or tangles in her coat. It had been a long time since he'd had a chance to pet a dog and Sherlock was surprised by how much he'd unknowingly missed it. "And aren't you a pretty lady?"

"Spoiled rotten, more like," a voice from behind Sherlock said. "And laaaazy!" the voice's owner continued. "Don't know why we haven't fired her yet, considering she doesn't do much more than bark an' eat." The tone was affectionate, despite the less-than-flattering words.

Sherlock shifted in his crouch, looking up to meet the gaze of an older man with a face so dark and weathered, he resembled nothing so much as a prune with dark brown eyes. Sherlock blinked once, finding his attention caught by the other man's truly enormous handlebar mustache. The dog grumbled as Sherlock's hand stopped, and he automatically resumed his petting. "Is she yours?"

"Naw. She belongs to Miz Ross, but she don't mind minglin' with us po' folks. I'm Wayne Jones," the man introduced himself, offering a hand which Sherlock took. Wayne Jones's slight frame was belayed by the strength of his grip as he easily pulled the taller man to his feet. "You must be the new guy Miz Molly's sighing over."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but startled at the touch of a cold, wet nose brushing his palm. The collie, displeased with the end of her petting session, had scrambled to her feet to sit at his feet and was unashamedly nudging her head underneath his hand. Sherlock looked down, a bemused expression on his face at being so easily manipulated, before beginning to gently massage the collie's ears while she panted happily. "Billy Scott," Sherlock introduced himself, giving the other man's hand a firm shake before releasing it. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jones." 

The elderly man laughed, a deep, rich, bubbling sound that would have reminded Sherlock of nothing so much as a fountain or a stream if he were inclined to metaphorical comparisons. "And aren't you a fancy, well-mannered young feller?" Jones asked rhetorically. "Why don't you call me Old Wayne? Jes' the same as everybody else." Old Wayne reached out and clapped Sherlock on his left shoulder, hard enough to make Sherlock stagger. "Come on in, son," he said, chivving Sherlock along with a gentle shove. "Let's get you inside and fed up…yer far too skinny."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, but let himself be escorted. He disliked casual physical contact, preferring to avoid it whenever possible, but saying so ran contrary to his genial persona. Instead, he began deducing the man walking alongside of him to distract himself from either flinching or complaining. 

The ubiquitous rancher outfit of slightly worn, but mostly clean denim trousers, cowboy boots and a battered cowboy hat was present. Incongruously enough, so was a plaid bow tie and traces of hot pink around the cuticles of the man's fingernails. Sherlock's gaze flicked sideways. There was no trace of a ring, and the man was at least seventy years old, if not more. A grandchild was the most likely source of the fingernail polish, meaning that 'Old' Wayne Jones was an indulgent grandfather. A trait that would mesh with his fond tone when describing the dog. 

"Molly mentioned yesterday that you help run the 'Western Nights' events?" Sherlock commented as they made their way to the house. The collie alternated between walking beside them and dashing off ahead of them to sniff at things that caught her interest, her tail wagging like an oversized, furry, plume.

"That I do, young man, that I do." Old Wayne gave him a scrutinizing look. "You interested in working one?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock answered vaguely. It would provide him with an opportunity to observe the staff in a slightly different environment. There was also the possibility that somebody might let something slip. 

The old man gave him a knowing smirk. "Now that she's single, Miz Molly tends to work the Friday evening tours, iffen her classes will let her."

"Molly was dating somebody?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head. "How long ago?"

"Eh, I don't really recall," Old Wayne said evasively. "Didn't like him much. I told that girl she could do better than date a guy who picked his nose and was possessive about her time."

"Who ended it?"

"She did."

"Was he a bronco rider?" Sherlock asked, making a mental note to ask Molly about her ex. "Did he ever visit the ranch?" It was unlikely that he was involved, but every thread, no matter how tenuous, needed to be investigated.

Old Wayne snorted in response. "Oh hell no. He was some sort of fancy biology major. She told me they met in a lab…classroom romance."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock replied, following Old Wayne up the steps of the porch and through the door the older man courteously held open for him, before following him to the staff dining room. They paused at the door. The old man tilted his head at Molly's seated form and winked, before giving Sherlock a hearty clap on the shoulder and striding away. 

Sherlock only barely managed not to stagger at the blow. Suppressing a grimace, Sherlock rolled his shoulders to mitigate the stinging before stepping into the room.

Except for Molly, who was sitting by herself at a corner table with her back to the doorway, the dining room was empty, the rest of the staff had already dispersed to attend to their respective duties. Irritating, Sherlock thought to himself. He'd have to wake up even earlier tomorrow if he hoped to mingle and observe the other ranch staff for possible clues about Blaze's change in temperament. Fixing a pleasant smile on his face, Sherlock sauntered across the room, his boot heels making soft thuds against the stained concrete. 

Molly was nursing a cup of coffee and looking at the screen of her mobile, slender fingers tapping busily at the screen. At the sound of somebody's approach, Molly turned and looked over her shoulder. When she spotted Sherlock, she smiled, her whole posture visibly brightening. "Billy! Hi!" Molly chirped, pushing her chair back and standing up. "Juana went ahead and made a fresh pot of coffee since it was all gone, and the bread's in the kitchen, so you can make your own toast however dark you want it. Come on," she continued, gesturing towards the open doorway.

With a nod, Sherlock followed her into the kitchen, his sharp eyes quickly scanning the space. It was ruthlessly clean, he observed immediately. There were also no personal touches to be seen. There were none of the amusing (and occasionally sexually suggestive) magnets that Mrs. Hudson kept on her refrigerator. Nor were there any painted plaques, ornamental rugs, decorative glass bottles, baskets or other superfluous items that individuals included in their kitchen to make it feel 'homey'. Not even a skull tucked beside the coffee pot for morning company. The equipment was all high quality, like everything else he'd seen thus far. Stainless steel, polished to a high shine, reflected the white walls and dark floors. The only interruption to the room's monochrome palette were the half dozen Terracotta pots filled with different herbs. They were clustered on an extra-wide windowsill over the sink that looked to have been designed with such a purpose in mind. Sherlock took a curious sniff and detected the faint perfume of marjoram, mint, parsley, thyme, oregano and coriander. 

Dismissing the room as irrelevant, Sherlock turned his attention to the room's indisputable master. The cook was a short, plump woman, clad in dark slacks and a white chef's smock that blended in neatly with the room's monochromatic colour scheme. If he peered closely, Sherlock could just make out the patterns of brightly coloured Colcha embroidery that decorated the cuffs and yoke of the blouse she wore underneath her chef's smock. Her iron-gray hair was tucked neatly into a net in recognition of health codes. She was standing at one of the stainless steel counters, her capable hands busily rolling corn tortillas around some sort of filling and laying them in an enormous glass casserole dish. A second, already filled dish sat slightly off to one side. The contents had been slathered in some sort of olive-green sauce and a truly appalling amount of cheese. _Burritos?_ Sherlock speculated, _or were they quesadillas?_ In London, he tended to exist primarily on Chinese food, Indian takeaway, nicotine, trail mix, Mrs. Hudson's oatmeal biscuits, and tea. Clearly he would be required to expand his culinary preferences while on this particular case. 

"Hola Juana," Molly began, giving Sherlock a slightly bashful look as she addressed the cook. "Aqui es Billy," Molly continued, once she had the other woman's attention, pointing to where Sherlock was standing.

Molly's accent was terrible, Sherlock noted, trying not to wince as he listened to her stumble through introductions in a mixture of Spanish and English with some truly…atrocious verb tenses mixed in. He decided not to reveal that he was fluent in Spanish. It was amazing what pieces of information people would let slip when they thought that he couldn't understand them. He'd solved a case involving horse sperm smuggling in the Philippines that way. Nobody had suspected the lost tourist in the loud shirt of having an ulterior motive, let alone being fluent in Tagalog. Sherlock smiled at the memory. It had been an exciting case and well worth the hassle of traveling across multiple time zones. 

Sherlock kept the pleasant smile fixed on his face while he waited, deducing the cook in the meantime. _Married…three children, all grown…a long term, valued employee and almost certainly bilingual, judging by the way she clearly understood what Molly was saying, despite Molly's garbled grammar and pronunciation._

"Si," the cook— _Juana_ —Sherlock reminded himself, said after a few moments of listening to Molly. She tilted her head to indicate the coffee maker and loaf of bread sitting out on the counter beside the stove. "Por ahí. Ayúdate." Over there, help yourself, Sherlock mentally translated. He was careful to look at Molly for confirmation before walking over and fixing himself a plate. 

The bread was fresh baked, Sherlock noted with some surprise as he popped two slices into the toaster and set the machine to 'medium'. There was also an assortment of different jellies and jams: Prickly Pear (a cactus fruit?), raspberry, blackberry (too many seeds), grape (revolting), and apricot. There was also a stick of softened butter—real butter—Sherlock noted with pleasure, not the horrible margarine pap he'd encountered far too often—and a clay pot filled with honey, complete with a proper drizzle stick. 

He poured himself a cup of coffee while he waited for his bread to toast and added two dashes of sugar from the spouted metal and glass container sitting beside the pot. Americans, apparently, weren't civilized to serve their coffee in a proper sugar bowl. Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock took a careful sip of the hot liquid to avoid accidentally burning his tongue. The brew was darker than what he normally drank. It was almost thick enough to dissolve a spoon, but the caffeine and sugar were sufficient to dispel the headache and lingering cobwebs caused by flying from London to Texas in a twenty-four hour span. Blinking, Sherlock took another sip, noting with surprise that it had none of the bitterness he had learned to expect from cheap coffee. Apparently Candii Ross believed in supplying quality meals to her staff, as well as her animals. 

"So…what are your plans for the day?" Molly asked, refilling her own cup of coffee and flavoring it liberally with four spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream. She leaned one hip on the corner of the oversized wooden table taking up space in the center of the room. 

The table's surface, though clean, was marred with stains and knife marks, Sherlock observed as he brought his plate of toast and coffee over and pulled one of the stools tucked under the edge free with the toe of a boot. His eyes flicked up, automatically calculating the hanging height of the wrought iron pot rack against the observed arm length and height of the cook. Between the cook's grudging acceptance of their invasion and the low-hanging cookware, it was evident that the table was used primarily for food preparation, rather than eating, Sherlock observed, taking a deliberate sip of his coffee. Behind them, the cook continued to work, popping the casserole dishes into the industrial-sized fridge, wiping down counters and, Sherlock noted, keeping a sharp ear perked for their conversation. 

"Observing Devil's Blaze," Sherlock finally replied, opting for an innocuous answer. He set down his cup and taking a bite of his honey-drizzled toast. At Molly's look of confusion, Sherlock bit back an exasperated sigh, easily covering it with a swallow of bread. "I prefer to spend at least a day observing a horse in his or her environment before I begin working with them," he explained, once his mouth was empty. "Quite often, there proves to be an environmental factor at play."

"Oh," Molly replied, "right. You, um, mentioned that yesterday."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, being careful to keep his tone friendly, as he took another bite of his breakfast. He had a suspicion of what Molly wanted, the question was whether or not engaging in tedious social rituals was worth the potential value of convincing Molly to do him favours… 

"Why what?" Molly asked, interrupting his mental calculations.

"What did you want to know what my plans for the day are," Sherlock clarified, barely managing to resist the urge to call Molly an idiot to her face. Instead, he settled for tilting his head and giving her an inquisitive look.

"Oh, um," Molly flushed and swallowed, licking her lips before tilting her chin up to meet Sherlock's impatient gaze. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," she said in a rush.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He deliberately shifted his gaze to the oversized mug that Molly was gripping in both hands, before returning his purposely puzzled expression to her face. 

She flushed, biting at her lip. "This weekend," she clarified. "With me. When we're not working."

"Oh!" Sherlock tilted his head and pursed his lips before giving Molly a shyly hesitant smile. It was one of his more successful 'shamming normal' expressions. Quite often, it resulted in him getting access to email addresses, an individual's mobile phone or into a locked room that he had no authority to be in. "Of course. How could I refuse?" Sherlock told her, deciding that he would play along for the time being.

"Great," Molly replied, blinking as if she couldn't quite believe his acceptance was genuine. "There's a lovely little place in town called 'Ground Zero' that serves the best cinnamon scones…"

"Saturday evening, then?" Sherlock asked, leaning back and deliberately resting the rim of his coffee mug below his lower lip to draw attention to his mouth.

"Okay," Molly said faintly, before looking away, her cheeks an even darker pink. 

Sherlock shoved the second slice of buttered toast into his mouth, successfully hiding a sigh of irritation. Flirting was a tedious business, full of innuendos and casual touches. Flirting with women was even more so. There was a reason why he prefered to remain single and celibate. With the exception of Victor, he'd never found anybody that didn't quickly prove to be a dull bore. Admittedly, Molly had demonstrated she was at least intelligent, but he found her timidness to be exasperating, at the very least. 

Glancing at her watch, Molly winced and hurriedly drank the rest of her cup of coffee. She rinsed it and loaded it into the industrial-sized dishwasher under the watchful gaze of the kitchen's cook. "Sorry, Billy, I've got to run," she explained. "I need to get some things done before my class starts. Bye!" Molly called as she scurried out of the room.

Ignoring the dark look the cook sent him, Sherlock walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a fresh cup to drink while he finished his second slice of toast. Transport attended to, he followed Molly's lead and rinsed his empty cup and plate before loading them into the dishwasher. Ordinarily, he would have left them in the sink, like he frequently did at home, but the sharp expression of the cook communicated wordlessly that she wasn't nearly as accommodating as Mrs. Hudson was, despite the older woman's frequent reminders of 'not your housekeeper, dear!' 

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Sherlock left the house and began to amble across the yard, nodding cordially when he saw an employee. Most returned his nod with one of their own, except for the one or two that ignored him completely, being preoccupied with leading horses or shoveling manure. They were clearly focused on their work. Even when several staff were working in the same barn, idle chatter was kept to a minimum. Whether that was because Candii Ross was visibly on hand as she made her rounds, or because it was the standard operating procedure, Sherlock couldn’t be certain, but the occasional eye flicks and blank expressions indicated it was the former, rather than the latter. 

His circuit finished, Sherlock worked his way to where Devil’s Blaze was currently housed. He was careful to approach the quarantine paddocks from downwind and remain at a distance, denying the stallion the opportunity to scent him. A nearby tree provided sufficient shade and was gratifyingly free of underlying debris. Sherlock leaned up against the smooth trunk, his legs crossed, and pulled out his moleskine notebook so he could make notes on his equine client while unobserved. 

He remained motionless for over an hour. Though distance made the details difficult to discern, the horse's body language was easy enough to read. The red stallion's ears were pinned back and his head was up. Even though there was nobody currently near the paddocks, the horse kept picking up his feet nervously, clearly anticipating a threat from the innocuous sounds of ranch life: barn doors banging, the crunching of tires over gravel…the enthusiastic chirping of songbirds and the lowing of cattle in one of the distant pastures. The stallion suddenly snorted and half-reared, baring his teeth. Sherlock shifted his gaze, silently noting the two ranch hands approaching the paddocks. 

The first one was fairly young, barely out of his teens if his build was any indicator. He was pushing a wheelbarrow that contained a shovel, a rake, and a pole hook. The second Sherlock recognized as Socorro Valdez, one of the employees Molly had introduced him to yesterday. A long-handled bullwhip was wrapped in a coil hanging off of his right shoulder. Socorro was also carrying two buckets. One likely contained fresh feed since the other one was full of water: Sherlock could see it sloshing over the rim, leaving dark brown splashes in the dirt as the man walked.

At their approach, the stallion screamed an unmistakable challenge, rearing up and striking out, his ears pinned flat to his head. The two men paused. Sherlock could hear the rapid patter of Spanish, though they were too far away for him to make out the words they were saying clearly, beyond the phrases 'loco horse' and 'crazy bitch'. 

The younger man parked the wheelbarrow and picked up the pole hook while Socorro put down the buckets he was carrying and uncoiled the bullwhip from his shoulder. Keeping a wary eye on the stallion, the first man crouched down and used the pole hook to pull out two empty, and much abused, rubber dishes from the paddock. Setting the empty containers aside, he picked up the rake and began raking the worst clumps of manure and spoiled hay through the opening between the paddock's lowest rail and the ground. Socorro stood near by, his bullwhip unfurled and poised.

His vigilance was warranted.

Devil's Blaze spent several minutes rearing and snorting before approaching the fence. His neck snaked out, putting his head on the same level as his withers and his ears were pinned flat. Even somebody with absolutely no knowledge of horses could correctly interpret the threat. The man with the rake paused, before slowly pulling the tool backwards where the horse couldn't step on it. He stood up and turned his head to address his co-worker. The moment of inattention almost cost him.

The fence was solidly built, but the railings were still a standard height of five feet. It was high enough to deter a casual passersby from petting any animal inside and to prevent all but the most determined horse from trying to jump, but still low enough for an equine to reach his or her head over. 

Which is what happened. 

Before Sherlock could do more than blink, the stallion attacked. His head shot forward, teeth bared and snapping towards the neck and shoulder of the rake-holding cowboy. With a curse, he threw himself backwards, out of danger's way. Simultaneously, the one with the bullwhip cracked it in the air beside Blaze's body. The sudden sharp sound caused the stallion to pull back and rear, even though he was unharmed. Socorro and his assistant spent several minutes arguing with each other. Their voices were too low for Sherlock to understand what they were saying, and their backs were to him, making lip reading impossible, but he had no doubt that they were both glaring daggers at the stallion who was now running around in circles inside the paddock. They filled both dishes, one with a mixture of grain and Alfalfa and the other with water. When they were ready, Socorro cracked his bullwhip in the air again, driving the stallion to the far end of the paddock. His assistant took the opportunity to shove both dishes under the bottom rail of the fence while the stallion snorted and reared from a safe distance away. 

Feeding and watering complete, the two men began to circle the paddock slowly, inspecting the fence for weak spots. Socorro pointed at a board that Sherlock suspected was cracked. His companion nodded emphatically, and Sherlock heard the Spanish words for 'replace' and 'escape' drift to him on the wind. The stallion inside watched them, utterly ignoring the food and turning warily to keep them in sight at all times. The two men left shortly thereafter, taking their tools with them, their inspection and morning care of Devil's Blaze complete.

Time drifted past. The sun continued to climb in the sky, adding to the already-miserable temperature. Shadows shifted and began to lengthen, sending dark fingers across the ground. Sherlock, meanwhile, continued to remain motionless from his vantage point underneath the tree. A distant part of him was grateful for the protection afforded to his fair skin by his ridiculous hat, his long sleeves and the sun cream Mrs. Hudson had insisted upon. His familial resemblance to Mycroft was bad enough without adding freckles to his skin. 

Eventually the wary stallion approached the buckets the two men had left. He ate and drank, but was visibly uneasy about having his head down in a vulnerable position where he could be attacked. Every few minutes, the stallion raised his head, curled back his upper lips to expose his teeth and inhaled through his mouth, rather than his nostrils. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in curiosity. The flehmen response was a common behavior exhibited by stallions when they were around mares in estrus, because greatly increased the amount of information supplied to an animal’s vomeronasal organ compared to regular sniffing. Mares who had just given birth often displayed the flehmen reaction in response to their foals, as did immature animals. The fact that the stallion was doing so now, while he was alone in the corral, indicated that he was trying to detect something. But what? Sherlock's lips twitched in a miniscule frown as he watched the stallion shy away from the buckets because of a shadow cast by a passing bird. A moment later, the stallion proceeded to trample a waving tussock of grass into oblivion, whinnying and snorting all the while. _Interesting_ , Sherlock mused, noting the way that the stallion seemed to waver between fear and fear-fueled aggression. A horse's first instinct was to flee a threat. If the stallion was turning around and attacking something, did it mean it was a perceived threat that the stallion could not hope to escape?

Sherlock tilted his head minutely as he watched the stallion continue to fidget and pace around the paddock, never remaining stationary for long. For horses, the need for a herd was instinctive. Being alone was dangerous; friends helped protect each other. While he understood Candii Ross's motive for keeping Devil's Blaze isolated from the other horses, the tactic went against millions of years of evolution. In nature, a single horse was liable to end up as a predator's dinner. It was why some horses rushed back to their barn, or "talked" constantly by way of whinnys when separated from their herd-mates. 

Fortunately, it was an instinct that savvy trainers knew how to work with. For a herd-bound animal, the technique was for the horse to spend more time with their primary trainer until the horse viewed the human as a source of safety, authority and enjoyable experiences. If human/equine bonding time was not an option, other techniques could be used. Many high-strung race horses tended to have a stable companion to help keep them calm. Goats were the traditional choice, but ponies, donkeys and even pigs had been used. Devil's Blaze clearly viewed humans as a threat. Perhaps if he introduced another animal into the paddock nearby? Sherlock filed the thought for later contemplation and went back to watching the stallion.

At 4:55, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and composed a quick text.

_Initial observation complete. Recommend use of mild sedatives and introduction of a companion animal…preferably either a goat or a gelded donkey to start. SH_

A moment later, his mobile chimed with an incoming message.

_Fine._

_I need keys to an unobtrusive ranch vehicle and a passcode. Immediately. SH_

_Meet me in the office._

With a smirk, Sherlock tucked his mobile into his pocket and strode to the requested rendezvous point. 

Two hours later, he was driving north, towards Amarillo.

There was at least one benefit to being trapped in what was colloquially referred to as the 'Bible Belt', Sherlock mused as he turned off of Bill Picket Boulevard and onto Grand Street, heading towards the Tri-State Fairgrounds. The prevalence of religious services gave him a perfect cover to leave the ranch on a weeknight immediately after dinner without drawing more than an understanding nod from the staff. Wednesday evenings, especially, were popular nights of church services. Sundays had become too overbooked for most families to attend morning services. Even the Church of England had fallen victim to the pattern. Fortunately for his investigation, there were any number of secular events also scheduled for the public at the Tri-State Fairgrounds allowing him to wander the area without attracting undue attention.

The wind had picked up during his drive north, Sherlock noted as he drove through the east entrance, observing the way a slightly faded vinyl banner proudly advertising a bi-weekly farmers' market rippled and popped on its ropes. Following the instructions of his mobile, he turned the corner. 

As he'd expected, the car park was full. The calendar of events he'd looked at had advertised an art showing in one building and a meeting of some sort of traditional music association in another. The already-parked vehicles ranged from minivans to battered hatchbacks. Many were decorated with stickers advertising religion, patriotism, pride in the school achievements of offspring, academic institutions and slogans advising the public to 'shop local' and 'Reduce, Reuse, Recycle!' The battered pickup he'd borrowed from Candii Cross blended in perfectly, and the presence of other people wandering around on the grounds would make his own investigation less noticeable. 

Sherlock grimaced as the wheels of the truck bumped over a pothole, almost causing him to hit his head on the ceiling of the cab. His sharp eyes noted the places where an overhead streetlight bulb had burned out— _shot out_ —he corrected himself a moment later, seeing the unmistakable puncture of a bullet's path. He also noted the general lack of security cameras. Despite the numerous events scheduled at the site, whomever was responsible for the general upkeep of the grounds clearly cared little for general maintenance. 

After parking the truck, Sherlock turned and picked up the denim jacket that was lying beside him on the passenger's seat. It was a specialty piece, carefully tailored with multiple custom interior pockets secreted inside the lining. It had been modified to hold a host of tools and drugs without distorting the lines where it draped over his lean frame. The jacket had cost him a small fortune for such short notice, but he didn't care. He could easily write it off on his taxes as a business expense, or add the cost to Candii Ross's eventual bill if she continued to annoy him.

Unfortunately, the jacket lacked the comforting weight of his favoured Belstaff, despite the modified lining. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he slid out of the truck and locked it, taking a moment to pocket his keys before shrugging the jacket on over his button-down. At least the air was rapidly cooling with the setting of the sun, making the accessory a logical item of clothing to wear. 

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Sherlock began to walk in the direction of the buildings. With every stride, he could feel the sharp corner of the box of cigarettes he'd tucked into one of his pockets bumping against his side. Tobacco use was rampant in this part of the country, despite the plethora of billboards advertising help by calling 1-800-QUIT-NOW and the adverts for free smoking cessation aids. Sherlock smirked. As tempting as it was to visit a chemist and see if he could acquire some free patches, it would have to wait until he was done investigating. In the meantime, offering (or begging) a free cigarette was an easy ploy to start up a conversation with a stranger. The same social ritual was also performed with chewing tobacco, a smokeless alternative for a nicotine fix. Sherlock grimaced at the memory. He'd tried it. Once. The texture reminded him of nothing so much as Marmite and the reaction of his salivary glands had been…unpleasant, at best. The thought of using it again made his gorge rise and he was a person who routinely kept samples of manure, blood, urine, cerebrospinal fluid, saliva, sputum, hair and different body tissues in his refrigerator. 

There were quite a few people milling around the fairgrounds. Some in high heels and ties, others in more casual wear carrying a variety of instrument cases, including violins. Sherlock swallowed at the unexpected pang of longing for his own beloved Guarneri, safely tucked into its case back in his London flat. Instead, he concentrated on tilting his hat with an absent-minded courtesy to people who smiled at him and offering a vague smile in response to curious looks while maintaining his purposeful pace. 

The trick to getting into most places without permission was acting like one was authorized to be there. It was impressive how many places he'd accessed over the years using confident posture alone…the staff area of a veterinary lab in New York, the kitchen of a Michelin Guide ranked restaurant in Geneva, Switzerland…race tracks…private clubs…insurance offices… 

Sherlock slowed, then stopped as he finally reached the Buffalo Bill Cody Equestrian Center. Reaching out, he cautiously tried the door. It was locked. Unsurprising, but slightly inconvenient. After briefly checking over his shoulder to confirm that he was alone, Sherlock pulled out his gloves and his lock picks and set to work. The lock was a fairly straightforward tumbler lock that quickly yielded to his expertise. He cracked the door and tilted his head, listening carefully for the beep of an alarm system being tripped. Satisfied at the silence, Sherlock slipped inside. A quick application of clear packing tape ensured that the door wouldn't automatically lock behind him in the event a fast escape was needed. 

The interior of the building was dim, lit only by the red glow of the emergency lights. Sherlock pulled out his pocket torch and flicked it on, playing the small but powerful beam over the floor and walls as he headed towards the stalls where Devil's Blaze had been confined. 

The stall in question was easy to identify. Bright yellow tape, printed with the repeating phrase 'police line, do not cross' barred the aisle on both sides. Sherlock halted outside of the barrier before crouching down to study the floor, sweeping the beam of his torch across in a slow swath.

To his annoyance, there was nothing useful to see. Too many people had trod on the scene since the night the trainer was killed. Any informative foot or hoofprints outside the stall had been long-since obliterated by gurney wheels, police, or the trompings of the so-called forensics team. Sherlock ducked under the tape with a sneer and turned his attention to the closed door of the stall itself. He crouched down again, carefully playing the beam of his torch over the wooden surface. He could see several places where the door had splintered outward in response to blows to the stallion's hooves. Sherlock tilted his head, mentally calculating the force that would have had to been applied based on Blaze's hooves and the thickness of the wood. As he stood up, something near the hinge glinted, catching the corner of his eye before vanishing. Curious, Sherlock turned to look, repeatedly running the light over the rough surface before the glimmer showed itself again. Sherlock stepped closer, his attention caught.

It was a piece of thread, snagged on a rough splinter of wood, and so fine that he almost missed it, despite deliberately looking for it. Gripping the end of the torch in his teeth, Sherlock snapped a quick photograph of the thread in situ, before reaching into his pockets for a pair of gloves, a pair of tweezers and a sterile collection tube. Holding his breath to avoid disturbing the filament, Sherlock carefully worked it free from the rough grip of the wood and transferred it to the tube for safety. He capped the tube and used a marker to write down the relevant details before tucking it and his tools back inside his jacket. There was no guarantee that what he had found was relevant, but a great deal of his success came from recognizing the subtle details that others overlooked and assembling them into a cohesive whole. 

Bending down, Sherlock ran the torch's beam over the metal latch handle of the stall door. He could see the faint smudges of black powder from where somebody had dusted for prints, though whether the forensics team had uncovered anything useful would be another question entirely. Pulling a handkerchief out from his pocket, he used it to open the latch, before stepping back and allowing the door to swing open into the aisle. The photographs of the scene that Mycroft had supplied had been useful, but he prefered to make his deductions in person. Far too often, valuable data was overlooked because of a crime scene technician failing to view a scene in all three dimensions. They tended to concentrate on the floor and walls, but ignored evidence on the ceiling. When dealing with an animal that could rear to a height of ten feet, or more, it paid to look up. 

From his current vantage point, Sherlock could see the clear imprint of hoof marks on the walls and door. He could also see places where Blaze's mane, tail and coat had snagged on the damaged boards. Streaks and speckles of dried blood were still visible on the walls and floor. Moving slowly, he began to walk around the perimeter of the stall, reading the chronology of events. He paused, catching sight of the tie ring where Blaze's lead rope would have been secured. It was hanging loose, the screws almost ripped out of the wood. 

Sherlock raised a silent eyebrow. The majority of horses were halter-broken, trained to stand still when tied. Fighting a tie, especially if a non-quick release knot was used could result in head, neck or vertebrae injuries if the rope didn't give and send the horse flipping over backward with potentially fatal consequences if it did. For Devil's Blaze to have pulled the ring loose, an incredible amount of force had to have been applied. Sherlock took another photo and continued examining the stall, reading the sequence of events dispassionately. 

Based on the direction of the of the scuff marks and the torque that had been applied to the tie ring, Devil's Blaze had been frightened by something outside the stall. He'd tried to pull straight back, his movements growing more and more frantic until the lead rope eventually snapped. From there, he'd backed into a corner, rearing up and snagging pieces of his mane on the boards overhead. But then something had caused him to lunge forward, attacking Straker from his position beside the stall door as the other man tried to flee. He could see the splatters of blood on the wall that would have come from a blow to a horse's muzzle if it had been hit mid-lunge, and another bloodstain that marked where Straker would have fallen to the ground under the assault of the horse's hooves. From there, he would have been trampled. If the universe had been merciful, he would have quickly lost consciousness, but the dried stains told a different story. 

Reaching into a pocket, Sherlock pulled out a second torch, this one loaded with a blacklight, and turned it on. Despite what television shows commonly depicted, blood did not fluoresce under a black light: it absorbed the light instead, appearing much darker than the surrounding area. Other bodily fluids did glow, however. Semen was the most infamous (Mrs. Hudson was quite fond of Exposé-type documentaries), but urine and saliva also responded to the ultraviolet waves. Raising the light up, he began to play it across the floor the walls, moving in a slow, sweeping motion, silently noting the urine stains…likely human and equine both.

Huffing through his nose, Sherlock switched back to the regular torch and walked over to where he could see traces of feed mixed in with the straw. Oats were easily identifiable, as were pieces of Alfalfa. If the feed had been adulterated in some fashion, an analysis of the samples would show it. His lips set in a frown of concentration, Sherlock reached into his denim jacket for another pair of gloves, more capped 5 ml tubes and another set of sterile tweezers. It was the work of a moment to place several pieces of straw and hay into tubes and tuck them away. The feed was more challenging. Some pieces were lying scattered on top. Others had been ground into the floor. As tempting as it was to stick to the uncrushed pieces, he needed a wide variety in case the reason that some pieces had been stuck to the floor was because they had been laced with something that made them sticky. Leaning forward, Sherlock began scraping at the smears using one of the sterile razor blades from the box he carried. A little bit came up and he quickly transferred it into the tube for later analysis. He was so intent on his task, he didn't hear the stealthy approach of another person, not until a voice behind him barked out, causing him to freeze.

"Put your hands up where I can see them," the voice growled, its cadence one of authority that expected to be obeyed. "Who are you and what the hell are you doing poking around a sealed crime scene?"

~*~


	6. Breaking-In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a geek and I'm having great fun making references to (and occasional paraphrasing quotes from) some of my favourite authors while writing this, including (but not limited to): [Patricia C. Wrede,](http://www.pcwrede.com/) [dioscureantwins,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins) [BeautifulFiction,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction) [H. P. Lovecraft,](http://www.hplovecraft.com/) Harry Potter, ACD cannon, Firefly and more. Geek points if you catch them.

~ * ~

Sherlock froze, mentally cursing himself for being too absorbed in collecting his samples to pay heed to his surroundings. 

"Come on now," the voice behind him barked. Sherlock heard the unmistakable snap of a holster being released. "Drop whatever it is you're holding, put your hands up in the air where I can see them and turn around slowly."

Lip curled in irritation, Sherlock slowly laid his specimen tubes and instruments down to avoid damaging them before raising his hands and turning around as he'd been ordered to do. He found himself facing a silver-haired man approximately his own height, though broader with muscle and at least twenty years older, putting him comfortably in his fifties. Mrs. Hudson would probably have described him as a 'Silver Fox' if he were inclined to ask her about her opinion on men. The man was clad in the dark blue uniform of a Texas police officer, complete with a truncheon, a taser, handcuffs, the ubiquitous American firearm and an expression that was anything but welcoming.

"What's your name?" the officer demanded, his tone gruff.

"Billy Scott," Sherlock lied easily, opting for a easygoing expression. It was probably too late to fool the other man, but it couldn't hurt to try. "I'm a horse trainer."

"Uh huh...and I'm the bloody Queen of England," the officer retorted, clearly not buying it. "Hand me your license. Slowly."

Oh. Now that could be problematic. Sherlock suppressed a reflexive grimace, wishing he'd somehow managed to secure the false license he'd wanted. Sadly, even Mycroft's powers had limitations. Following the officer's instructions, Sherlock reached into his back pocket and pulled his wallet free. Still moving slowly, he opened the leather billfold and handed the plastic card over. As he did so, the other man came close enough for Sherlock to see the rank pins he wore on his collar, as well as read the letters inscribed on the silver nametag the man wore clipped above the left front pocket of his uniform shirt. 

Lestrade, it read. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he mentally cross-referenced the name, insignia and what he could observe against the list of names and information Mycroft had supplied him with. _Captain Lestrade. First name Gerald, George, Gavin? Something starting with a 'G'. Irrelevant. Veteran member of the Amarillo Police Department. Experienced horseman, as indicated by the calluses and slight bowlegs. Mounted officer, though not mounted tonight, footwear is incorrect. Strands of black and white horsehair visible on his uniform shirt—Grey? Piebald? Appaloosa?—indicating he likely visited his equine partner before starting his shift at the fairgrounds. Molly Hooper mentioned he was the reason Devil's Blaze was not shot by a group of panicking idiots…_

Captain Lestrade took the proffered card and stepped back out of arm's range. He turned the card over and held it up to the light, visibly comparing the photo on the ID to the man in front of him. Both eyebrows rose as he read the name printed on the ID. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the frown he received. "Billy Scott?" Lestrade asked skeptically, "says here your name is 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Care to explain the difference?"

"It's my preferred name," Sherlock retorted, without much hope of being believed. 

"Of course it is. Sit down," Lestrade ordered, ignoring Sherlock's sniff of disdain. "I'm going to call this in, _Mister Scott_ ," the emphasis on Sherlock's alias was sarcastic. "In the meantime," Lestrade continued, "would you care to tell me why you're running around a closed crime scene?"

"I've been hired to rehabilitate a dangerous horse, and I was looking for evidence that might explain his behavior," Sherlock said coolly, dropping his Montana accent and letting his voice return to its normal timbre. "I was looking for traces of Locoweed or Water Hemlock that might have gotten mixed into his feed." He deliberately used the common names, rather than the more accurate Latin _Oxytropis splendens_ and _Cicuta maculata_ , privately betting that the officer wouldn't know the genus names, but would recognize the layman's terms. 

"Uh huh." The officer tapped on the radio attached to his shoulder. "This is Captain Lestrade, calling in from the Tri-State Fairgrounds. I'd like to be put through to Detective Donovan, please." There was a pause and Sherlock took the opportunity to continue observing the other man.

Captain Lestrade was cautious, which wasn't unexpected. Police officers the world over seemed to have 'constant vigilance!' drilled into their heads—the ones that were trained, and not simply thugs-for-hire. He was clearly skeptical of Sherlock's presence and his explanation. Another indicator of his probable intelligence. The copy of the report that Mycroft had included in the files had been surprisingly well written and refreshingly free of subjective statements and melodramatic prose. Legible handwriting had outlined an impressive amount of relevant detail, including dates, times, and witness names. Medications and codes had been spelled out instead of abbreviated. Hearsay statements had been clearly identified as such. There were also direct quotes from witnesses, including one from a paramedic who'd described the inside of the stall as "something straight out of 'Carrie' if Quentin Tarantino did a 'Kill Bill' style remake," (whatever that was). 

"Lestrade here…yes, I caught a guy snooping around the stall where that trainer got himself killed a few weeks ago. Said his name was 'Billy Scott,' but his driver's license reads 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes,' and he's listed as a British citizen. Is that who…yeah." There was a pause as Lestrade waited for the person on the other end of the line to stop talking. Sherlock mentally cursed the man's earpiece which kept him from hearing the other end of the conversation. After a moment, Captain Lestrade nodded. "I thought so. Will do. See you soon." He ended the call and turned back to where Sherlock was still sitting on the floor. "Well, Mr. 'Billy Scott' William Sherlock Scott Holmes…that was the detective assigned to this case. She'd like to speak to you. You want to come along willingly, or do I need to arrest you?"

Sherlock gave the man a look that clearly communicated the idiocy of question. 

"Uh huh," Captain Lestrade grunted, clearly not impressed. "I deal with teenagers. Your eyeroll could stand to use some work. Let's go." 

"And my belongings?" Sherlock inquired, his tone deliberately neutral, "may I collect them?"

"Nope," Lestrade told him bluntly, ushering him out of the stall before picking up the items himself and stowing them in several small plastic evidence bags he pulled free from a pouch on his utility belt. "Stealing evidence is a crime. These are going to the station."

Pointedly ignoring Sherlock's growl of frustration, Lestrade chivvied the consultant into the back of his patrol car. "I'm not handcuffing you as a courtesy, even though it goes against all regulations," he warned Sherlock. "Don't do anything stupid. I mean it," he snapped in response to Sherlock's sneer, before shutting the door and climbing into the driver's seat. 

The car's radio chattered a stream of numerical codes that Sherlock deduced to be related to traffic violations, petty crimes and other inane human problems. Dull. Resigning himself to the inevitable tedium of having to answer idiotic questions, Sherlock shifted slightly on the uncomfortable seat, wrinkling his nose at the faint aroma of sweat, spilled coffee and donuts permeating the car's interior, before turning his attention to the driver. If nothing else he could use the unexpected interruption of his investigation as an opportunity to perhaps wheedle himself into Lestrade's good graces. If Lestrade was regularly responsible for patrolling the fairgrounds, it would be best to have him as an ally, rather than an adversary. Bonding over shared experiences was frequently a successful technique, and horse lovers were no different. "How long have you been a mounted officer?" Sherlock asked. 

"What? How did you…?"

"Oh please. Your calluses and your bowlegs are both hallmarks of an experienced horseman," Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes in annoyance at Lestrade's inability to follow a completely logical conversational segue. "You also have horsehair on your shirt, likely from where you petted your partner before coming on shift, since you're in a car tonight, rather than on horseback."

Lestrade blinked, before glancing up and meeting Sherlock's eyes in the rearview mirror. His expression was one of grudging admiration. "You're right, I did. I've been a mounted officer for over twenty years." 

"Fascinating," Sherlock replied, managing to adopt a suitably sincere-sounding tone. "Did you grow up around horses?"

"Are you trying to butter me up, or are you honestly curious?" Lestrade demanded suddenly, causing Sherlock to blink in surprise and mentally revise his private estimation of the police captain's intelligence upward again. People seldom called him on his playacting, assuming they were intelligent enough to recognize it in the first place, Mrs. Hudson being the exception. 

"Both," Sherlock admitted after a moment of weighing the pros and cons of telling the truth. 

"Thought so," Lestrade said wryly. "At least you have the decency to admit it." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, likely debating on whether or not to continue talking. After a moment, he shrugged in a 'why the hell not?" gesture, before looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze in the rearview mirror. "To answer your question, Pop was a rancher…turns out there's a disturbing amount of similarity between controlling a herd of cattle and controlling a crowd of people." 

Sherlock smirked involuntarily at Lestrade's observation. It was an understatement, if anything. Victor had once made him watch some sort of ridiculous film about two American men in badly-fitted, generic black suits saving Earth from some sort of extraterrestrial life form bent on stealing a galaxy-containing bauble. Though the science seemed utterly implausible and the film was replete with unnecessary, over-the-top special effects, he'd been amused by the summarization of humanity as a whole consisting of 'dumb, panicky dangerous animals with a few intelligent individuals mixed in'. "That is certainly an…apt description," Sherlock commented. "I've observed such crowd behaviors myself, on numerous occasions. What age and breed is your current partner?" 

"Scotty? He's fourteen and an Appy," Lestrade replied, using the slang term for an Appaloosa.

"Where did you get him?"

"We bought Scotty from a breeder…though we also take donated animals, provided they meet certain criteria."

"Such as?"

Lestrade shrugged, signaling to change lanes and then turning a corner. "Temperament's a big one," he began, his voice falling into the cadence of somebody who had lectured on the topic countless times. "Assuming they prove intelligent enough and are healthy, police horse candidates start a three-month desensitization training. It's tough though…only one out of maybe every ten candidates ends up making it through the program. It's easier for a recruit to become a Navy SEAL than it is for a horse to join some PD forces." 

"And is it worth it?" Sherlock asked, deliberately leading Lestrade to answer, though he already knew the statistics from his own research. He tilted his head to one side, trying to meet Lestrade's gaze again in the rearview mirror. 

"Yes," Lestrade replied bluntly, not taking his eyes from the road. "Despite what the bean counters think, a good mounted officer is worth at least ten officers on foot, is excellent at crowd control and unbeatable for neighborhood policing." 

Sherlock nodded his understanding. He was aware that some budget-minded politicians in England sought to reduce the number of mounted officers, citing the high overhead costs of training, veterinary bills, stabling and feed. It didn't surprise him to learn that the mentality persisted in the United States as well. "What all is involved in their training?" Sherlock asked, subtly redirecting the conversation. "Is it at all like what horses utilized as therapeutic mounts go through?"

"I don't know about that," Lestrade said, bringing the car to a stop as the light in front of them turned red, "but the purpose of our training is to make them as close to bomb-proof as possible. They're conditioned to flee a perceived threat, you know—"

"Yes, I am aware of that fact," Sherlock interrupted dryly, "I'm not a moron."

"No, you're just a trespassing, law-breaking smart-ass who asked me a question I'm trying to answer," Lestrade retorted, without missing a beat. "During training, the horses get exposed to anything we can think of: inflated toys, flying tennis balls, screaming children and barking dogs, flashing lights, sirens…smoke bombs, fireworks and flares and tarps."

"Interesting. Do rodeos present a particular challenge?"

"Not any more than any other day. In some ways, they're a bit easier. Most rodeo attendees tend to know better than to approach a horse from behind for a photo op." 

"Mmmm…indeed."

Further conversation was put on hold as Lestrade turned into a car park— _parking lot_ —Sherlock automatically corrected himself, and parked in front of a hideous, multi-storied example of 1960s architecture in dull brown cement, black marble and glass. "Behave yourself," Lestrade warned, opening Sherlock's door and ushering him out, before leading him through the door and into the police station's lobby. Lestrade spared a polite nod for the older woman working at her computer behind a large glass window. 

_Grandmother of two boys, invalided into desk work, looking forward to retirement,_ Sherlock deduced absently as he followed Lestrade through a door marked 'Employees Only'. It opened onto a large hall, set with offices on either side. The walls were paneled on either side with the faux wood, the dark-brown expanse was broken up on a regular basis by oversized interior windows hung with white blinds. The majority of the doors were closed at the lights were off, indicating the occupants kept bankers' hours. _Fingerprint specialists…probation or parole officers…Human Resources…Accounting…Clerks…IT specialists…_ Sherlock read the small plaques to himself as the two of them hurried past. 

"This way," Lestrade told him, leading him through the warren of hallways with the ease of long experience. The brisk pace didn't bother the captain, Sherlock noted, the other man's breathing remained even, despite climbing multiple flights of stairs. Still walking quickly, Lestrade rounded a final corner and leaned against the open doorway of a miniscule office. "Wait a sec." Lestrade held up a hand, catching sight of the slim black woman sitting behind the desk. She was busily writing notes on a yellow legal pad, her brow set in a furrow of concentration as she nodded in response to whatever the voice on the other end of the line was saying. "She's on the phone," Lestrade said unnecessarily. 

Taking his cue, Sherlock leaned against the opposite wall, arms and ankles both crossed as he waited. Bored, he examined what he could see of his his environment from his vantage point. More empty offices lay on either side of him, the insides obscured by blinds and darkened lights. The end of the hallway, however, ended an enormous open work area, and was far more promising.

The walls that Sherlock could see were painted in varying shades of pale yellow; they were marred with old nail holes, scuffs and one or two irregularly textured spots where somebody had obviously tried to patch a spot, given up halfway through and slapped some new paint on in a bid to make it halfway presentable. Bulletin boards of varying sizes and styles crammed with papers added visual clutter. Modular carpet tiles in light tan, interspersed with regular blocks of darker brown covered the floor. Likely some idiot designer's attempt at making the dated building feel 'trendy'. The use of modular tiles was logical; it was far more economical to replace individual tiles stained by the inevitable coffee accident, though their overall threadbare condition made it clear that aesthetics were not high on the priority list. There were no cubicles. Instead rows of desks lined the space and, despite the late hour, the room's inhabitants were moving in a state of subdued pandemonium. Sherlock could see police officers filling out paperwork at their desks and answering phone calls. One woman, a dispatcher judging by the headset she was wearing was hurrying down the bull pen's main aisle, clutching a large Styrofoam cup of coffee in her left hand. An older man, probably close to retirement based on the size of his belly, Sherlock judged, was walking the other way, several cardboard boxes labeled 'The Donut Stop' carried in his arms. Observation complete, Sherlock turned his attention to the detective he would be meeting shortly, determined to deduce what he could through the open doorway of her office. 

The detective's U-shaped desk was covered with stacks of manilla folders, each one meticulously closed and rubber-banded on both axises to keep any loose documents inside from randomly falling out. There were two bookcases set in the far left corner, set at right angles to each other. One faced the desk, the other faced the hallway. Both were full of police procedure manuals and department policy guides, (he could see the coloured spines overhanging the too-shallow depth). An American flag, folded into a triangle and enclosed in a protective glass display box sat on the top of the hallway-facing book case. A beige file cabinet tucked in between the back bookcase and one edge of the desk contained a half-full, heavily stained coffee pot and a collection of mugs with different slogans. 

'A yawn is a silent scream for coffee' read one. 'I'm not addicted…it just keeps the headaches away' read another. A third declared in block text: 'I don't have a problem with caffeine…I have a problem WITHOUT caffeine!" The mugs, combined with the trash can beside the desk crammed full of paper and styrofoam to-go cups evidenced an addiction perhaps rivaling Anthea's. 

Sherlock found himself privately impressed.

After about five minutes, there was the distinctive thunk of a landline phone receiver being slammed back into its cradle by a seriously annoyed individual. "That's our cue," Lestrade grunted, pushing himself off the wall and back to his feet. Fixing his expression in an affable smile, Lestrade leaned into the open door and rapped his knuckles against the metal frame. "Detective Donovan?" 

At the knock, the attractive, dark-skinned detective gave a "hrmm" of acknowledgement. She didn't look up from the pad she was busily writing on, but she did make a quick hand gesture which Lestrade interpreted as permission to continue talking. 

He did. "I've brought 'Mr. Scott' in like you requested. The man I caught poking around the stall where that trainer got himself killed? The one you told me to keep an eye out for?"

At that, the woman paused and looked up, taking in both of them with a quick glance. "Come in," she said with no preamble, "and shut the door." Her voice carried a faint, but unmistakable trace of a Cockney accent. 

Sherlock blinked in surprise and stepped through, his eyes quickly taking in the details he hadn't been able to discern from the hallway. The bookcase facing Donovan's desk contained a small cluster of photographs on the top shelf. There was one of a ginger-headed man in a nice suit holding hands with a black woman clad in the uniform of an American Air Force Corporal. The woman was also holding a small bouquet of purple irises, white roses and forget-me-nots. Behind them, Big Ben rose in all of its glorious splendor. Another photo depicted a young man with an enormous grin wearing a shirt emblazoned with the logo of the United States Peace Corps. He was obviously Detective Donovan's brother if the almost identical nose and spray of freckles across the bridge was any indicator. Like his sister, the man's hair also had strong red undertones, though his hair was wavy, rather than curly. He had his arms slung over the shoulders of the men and woman standing on either side of him. The smiling group was standing in front of a newly-built well, complete with a hand pump. A third photograph showed Detective Donovan shaking hands with Maya Angelou. 

"Have a seat," Donovan said, indicating the two armchairs in front of her desk with a wave of a graceful hand. Unlike the chairs in Candii Ross's office, these were the same height as the chair that Donovan occupied. They were practical and unadorned, the gray fabric upholstery was worn shiny with the evidence of countless people sitting in them. Both chairs were miraculously clear of the files and other investigative detritus that cluttered the office. 

Sherlock did, and promptly found himself being studied by one the shrewdest pair of eyes he'd encountered since he'd first met Mrs. Hudson all those years ago. Sherlock returned her assessment with one of his own. 

The detective was quite beautiful, Sherlock noted absently. She had inherited her father's spray of freckles across her nose and her brown hair contained hints of auburn. Far more interesting, however, were the myriad of micro-expressions shifting across her face. Distrust, annoyance, impatience, the faint lines of chronic stress and the shadows of sleep deprivation. It was evident that she wasn't happy to see him, but neither did she seem surprised. 

After a long minute, the detective sighed, stood up and extended a hand. "Detective Sally Donovan," she introduced herself, giving Sherlock's hand a brusque shake before resuming her seat. "It's impressive to meet you, Mr. Holmes," she continued "Your reputation precedes you."

Sherlock flicked an eyebrow in surprise. "You know who I am?"

"I recognized you from one of your photographs." At Sherlock's look of skepticism, Donovan pursed her lips. "I'm a detective," she explained neutrally, "and before that, I earned a dual undergraduate degree in Library Science and Criminology. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's research." 

"Oh? Do explain your process," Sherlock sneered.

Donovan met his challenging look with one of her own. "It's a bit obvious, innit? Candii Ross's convinced that her horse was drugged and her best trainer was killed because someone's trying to ruin her business. She's been in here at least once a week, throwing her weight around…filing restraining orders, demanding copies of reports we can't give her and generally accusing us of not taking her case seriously enough…never mind that we've got an entire region's worth of crimes to investigate," Donovan added sourly, as she continued to fiddle with the pen in her right hand. "I heard through the grapevine that she was planning on hiring some specialist so she wouldn't have to euthanize that psycho horse—" At Sherlock's reproving expression, Donovan raised her chin, her expression mulish. "My job is to protect people first, Mr. Holmes, property comes second. That horse has already attacked and killed one person. He probably would have killed more if it hadn't been for Doc Watson's appearance. Technically, that freak horse probably should have been euthanized since he's proved himself a danger to human life. The only reason he wasn't is because Candii Ross has the money and connections to throw around. If you want to take your life in your hands and work with him, that's your choice, but if I were you, I'd stay the hell away from him, before we find ourselves standing around another body."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock said coolly. "And you knew enough to look me up based on that?"

"At first, no," Donovan admitted, "but I did by process of elimination. It's a well known fact that Candii Ross doesn't part with money until she has to, but when she does, she doesn't cut corners. If she's going to hire a fancy horse-whisperer to touch her babies, he or she'll be the best of the best. I did a Google search for 'world famous horse trainers' and I pulled up a few names…Monty Roberts, Buck Brannaman, Jill Henselwood, Vittoria Panizzon's names all came up. Yours did too, for speciality cases. It took a bit of digging, but once I did, it make sense that Candii Ross'd hire the one horse trainer with a background in investigative work. Especially considering your reputation."

"And what does my reputation say?" Sherlock asked, privately impressed at the intelligence the detective had displayed thus far.

"Personal or professional?" Sally rejoined,

"Both."

"That you're a bit of a dick," the detective replied bluntly, "but that you get results that nobody else can. You're also professionally ethical…it doesn't matter who's hired you, or how much they're paying. If you find evidence of wrongdoing, you report it, damn the torpedoes and let the chips fall where they may." 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, recognizing the quote, paraphrased though it was. "You've spoken with Major Barrymore at the Baskerville Military Academy in Innsmouth, Massachusetts, haven't you?"

"And Harry Knight, with the Hound Equine Insurance Agency, and also with Detective Ballarat, from the Boscombe Valley police department in upstate New York," Donovan confirmed. "As I said, I know how to do my research. So, despite my own objections, I'm inclined to shut up, listen, and remember my oath of office."

"Which means?"

"That as officer of the law," Donovan growled, "I have a duty to investigate a case impartially and consult with experts when I have the opportunity to do so…no matter how…irregular they may be."

"I'm impressed, Detective Donovan," Sherlock said grudgingly. "I'll admit, I wasn't expecting to encounter a law enforcement official quite so…competent out here." 

"Thank you," Donovan said, her tone making it clear that she recognized Sherlock's remark for the reciprocal back-handed compliment that it was. She picked up the empty mug sitting off to one side. "Now that we understand each other…coffee?" Donovan offered Lestrade and Sherlock both, standing up and reaching for the carafe behind her. Sherlock declined, though Lestrade accepted a cup of the burnt-smelling beverage gratefully before returning to his chosen spot of leaning against the door. Both cups were dosed with a liberal amount of sugar and powdered creamer, likely to cover up the appalling taste, Sherlock decided. Hostess duties complete, Donovan resumed her seat. "So," she began, leaning back in her chair and picking up her cup to take a sip, "you're the freaky horse whispering expert…what has that psycho horse told you so far?" 

With effort, Sherlock suppressed his aggravated sigh. Both Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft had stressed how politeness would get him further than rudeness: (" _If you're going to be rude, do it for a reason and get something from it, brother mine_ ," and " _more flies with honey than vinegar, dear!_ "). He needed unrestricted access to the crime scene and he didn't need to be arrested (again) for " _trespassing on private property, you freaky bastard,_ " as Seb Wilkes had so gleefully pointed out the last time the two of them had crossed paths. Here, in America, his connections were less readily available. More importantly, he didn't want to depend on his brother to bail him out of prison again. That one time in Belarus had been bad enough. "What I have _observed_ ," Sherlock stressed the last word, "is that based on the damage to the stall, something frightened Devil's Blaze badly. He remains extremely frightened of humans, to the extent that he attempts to attack the ones responsible for his food and care. I also know that he attacked Joe Straker first. Any injuries that Straker inflicted on the stallion were done in self defence." 

"Oh? How can you tell?" 

"Let me see your files," Sherlock indicated the large manilla folder lying closest to Donovan's phone. "I'll show you."

"What? No. I'm breaking the rules as it is, by discussing this with you in general terms," Donovan snapped, her expression visibly angry. She set her full cup down with slightly more force than was strictly necessary; a small splash of liquid sloshed out and ran down the side, pooling on the desk. "If you think I'm going to let you look at confidential police files—"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, overriding her objection with his customary bluntness. "Because you need this case solved, preferably quite quickly. You have suspects, but no evidence. You have suspicions, but no methodology. Despite the extensive research and compilation of facts you have no doubt assembled based on the size of the file you are protecting," Sherlock flicked a dismissive hand, indicating the documents in question, "—what theories you do currently have are circumstantial at best. More importantly, from a professional standpoint, if you don't produce some answers soon, Candii Ross and her cronies will make sure your career suffers as a result. You need me, and I need your cooperation to ensure that I can solve this case with minimal interruptions." Sherlock sat back in his chair, fingers pressed together in their habitual prayer position while he waited confidently for Donovan to bow and accept the inevitable. 

Donovan glared at him, then bit her lip and looked down at her desk, apparently weighing the benefits of Sherlock's involvement versus possible outcomes if she refused. She glanced sideways at the file Sherlock had indicated, her lips set in a thin line, before looking up and making eye contact with Lestrade. Sherlock couldn't deduce what silent communication passed between them, but after a long moment, Donovan nodded once in a short, jerky motion, before turning her head to meet Sherlock's impatient expression. "You're not wrong, Mr. Holmes, but you're not right either," Donovan informed him, her tone cool. "I don't give a damn about Candii Ross's threat to my career…I'm a damn good detective. I _do_ care about justice, and that means yes, I do need your help…much as it galls me to admit it." With visible reluctance, Donovan ripped off the top sheet of paper from the pad she had been writing on when Sherlock and Lestrade had first come in and shoved it across her desk, following it a moment later with the file and several envelopes of photographs that had been stacked underneath. "Show me," she demanded. 

Not bothering to suppress his smirk, Sherlock picked them up. Donovan had neat handwriting, Sherlock noted with interest as he read through her sentences. Not quite Copperplate, but her cursive was far tidier than most handwriting samples he'd written over the years; certainly better than his own. Clearly penmanship had been incorporated into her education and she hadn't balked at it the way he had, Sherlock thought, sparing a fond (if apologetic) thought for Mr. Talbot, his beloved childhood tutor. With a mental shake, Sherlock returned his focus to the matter at hand.

"Paramedics and stablehands?" Sherlock asked aloud, looking up from the paper to meet her irritated gaze.

"Some, yes." 

"Mmmmm…I'll want copies of their statements when you've interviewed them," Sherlock told her, pointedly ignoring Donovan's snort of disagreement. Setting the folders aside for later perusal he picked up the first envelope instead. He opened it, pulling out the sheaf of photographs within. Sherlock quickly flipped through the stack, ignoring the images of Devil's Blaze that he had already seen in favor of the forensic pictures of the scene. "Here," Sherlock began, pulling one free and laying it face up on Donovan's desk. "Do you see?" Sherlock demanded, pointing at the damaged tie ring. "Devil's Blaze, like most horses, was halter-broke—trained to stand quietly when tied—" he explained at Donovan's look of incomprehension. "Pulling back or rearing is dangerous, yet something clearly frightened him enough that he ignored his training." Sherlock shuffled through the stack again and laid a second photo down beside the first. "It would be easier to show this in the actual stall, but needs must. Devil's Blaze repeatedly tried to rear, eventually pulling the lead-line loose. He backed up into the corner of the stall and reared at least once—strands of his mane and tail are caught in the wood—before lashing out and downward at the perceived threat, which, in this case, was Straker. From what I can determine, Straker was standing beside the door where he backed up for safety when Blaze began to struggle, but he didn't make it out of the stall for whatever reason. You can see the angle and the impact of horse's hooves when he came down and the resulting splatter," Sherlock explained, quickly pointing out the pattern of blood splatter and dents marring the stall's walls. This injury—" Sherlock selected another photograph and placed it beside the others, "—was caused by a curry comb. The concentric circular pattern of the wounds on the horse's belly, legs and chest is a dead giveaway. Not a weapon per se, but something one might use reflexively to strike a horse that attacked them. If Straker had struck first, the wounds would have been to the horse's face. He fell here," Sherlock continued, pointing at the streak against the bottom of one wall, "and grabbed some sort of rake or shovel handle which he used to club Devil's Blaze across the face when he lunged down to bite him. Ultimately, however, Straker was overwhelmed by Blaze's repeated attacks and once he either lost conscious or expired, the stallion continued pummeling his body into pulp." Sherlock regrouped the laid out photographs and returned them to their initial stack. "Short of being exposed to a mare in acute estrus, this is not typical stallion behavior, especially since Joe Straker was an experienced horseman with enough experience to not challenge a stallion for dominance. So," Sherlock concluded, "I have told you what I have deduced. What can you tell me about the case?"

Donovan and Lestrade were both quiet for a long moment. They exchanged another of those glances, silently communicating before Donovan shook her head. "Right," she said with a grimace, "unfortunately, I can't tell anything that specific. In general terms, however, I'm sure it'll come as no surprise that Candii Ross is an automatic suspect because of the almost obscene insurance policies she has on her horses—we're taught to follow the money, Mr. Holmes," Donovan retorted in response to Sherlock's eye roll. "She'll get paid if he has to be put down, but she'll also get paid under the 'loss of use' clause, which is unbelievably convenient. I also learned the other day that she's the only person that'll benefit directly from Joe Straker's death…to the tune of a three hundred thousand dollar key employee life insurance policy." 

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head. "Is that legal in the United States?"

Donovan shrugged. "Perfectly, though some family members might consider it a bit unethical to profit off of their loved one's death. It costs a lot to replace an experienced or highly trained employee, you see. Losing one can be a major financial blow. It's not unusual for a small business—which is what Candii Ross technically qualifies as—to insure key employees to offset the potential damages, especially in a high-risk occupation. The rate's often calculated at five years times the employee's salary."

Sherlock pursed his lips. That was a new piece of information. He would have to needle Mycroft about it later. "The only person?" Sherlock asked aloud. "Mr. Straker doesn't have any heirs? Relatives?"

Donovan shook her head. "Straker was an orphan, and his only brother died in South Africa sometime during the mid-eighties…" Donovan paused to check her notes, "1986, to be exact. As for girlfriends…nothing long term…just a string of one-night stands. No kids either. Candii Ross is really that only one that benefits." 

"What about his estate?"

Donovan shrugged. "I'm no probate lawyer, but if he doesn't have a will and the lawyers can't find anybody else to give the money too, it'll pass to the state of Texas."

Sherlock pursed his lips, mentally noting another avenue of possible investigation. "Who else?" 

"Joe Straker is the next suspect, since he was the last person known to have had contact with the horse. Unfortunately, we can't really question him, on account of him being dead. Before you can ask," Donovan added, cutting Sherlock off by holding up her hand, "no, we haven't found any evidence of wrongdoing aside from the occasional misdemeanor charges. Speeding tickets, getting busted for disorderly conduct…the occasional fight. Believe me, we've checked. Straker emigrated over from West Africa as part of a church-sponsored scholarship program, earned his degree in horse training and management and got himself apprenticed to some bigwig named John Lyons. Candii Ross hired him after seeing him at some event and he's been working for her ever since. He was a known gambler, but that's technically not a crime in some states."

"Successful or no?"

"Very successful," Donovan replied. "People are required to report their winnings…Based on his tax records, Mr. Straker won between twenty and fifty grand most years, if not more." 

"Interesting. What did Mr. Straker gamble on?" Sherlock asked. "Racehorses? Cards? Slot machines?"

"Bullrides, mostly," Lestrade answered to Sherlock's surprise. "He was known for having an almost uncanny knack for picking which bull was going to beat which rider…especially in the last few years. Made some of the other cowboys jealous, since he wouldn't share his tips."

"Explain," Sherlock demanded. "I'm familiar with bronco scoring, but not how the bull ride betting or scoring works at a rodeo." 

Lestrade put the report down and held up his hands to to demonstrate. "It's pretty simple…and pretty much identical to the way that broncos are judged. The rider has to remain on top of the bull for the eight seconds. The bull and rider both get judged on their performance and the results are added to a cumulative score. At the end of the event, the cowboy with the highest score wins the division. When it comes to betting, there are a couple ways it can go. Somebody can bet on the animal," Lestrade raised one hand, "or somebody can bet on the rider," Lestrade explained, raising the other hand. "Does the bull win, or does the man? When it comes to bets, the odds are in favour of the underdog. Straker—before he died, that is—had a real knack for picking which bulls would turn out to be sleepers, like in the Bayard/Penang match."

"Oh?"

Lestrade grimaced. "Yeah. That was a match that happened the night before Straker got killed. Sam Bayard was the clear favorite—he's up for Nationals, and he lost. Got thrown and almost trampled by Penang. Bayard's still alive thanks to the rodeo clowns, but it was a close thing. If what's his name, Fizzy Simpson hadn't been so fast on his feet, Bayard probably would probably be dead. I've never seen a bull act quite that vicious, and I've been around rodeos for a long time. Anyhow, quite a few people lost money on that match; we had to clean up a few fights. Straker meanwhile made a pretty mint, several grand, I think…John Watson mentioned he was bragging about it."

"And it's legal?" Sherlock asked, looking at Lestrade intently.

"Mostly," Lestrade replied with another grimace, "depending on each individual state and the event sanctions at play. The PRCA officially opposes gambling, but since it's not an official rule, members often ignore it. And if it was, well, there's always illegal gambling." 

Interesting. He'd have to research the issue more later. "Speaking of fights," Sherlock began, "you mentioned that Joe Straker's uncanny luck made some people jealous…did he have any known enemies?" 

"Not that I've been able to determine," Donovan answered. "We interviewed his most recent known partner, hoping to get a picture of his last few days, but she couldn't tell us much…just that she knew Straker was a good ride in every sense of the word from his reputation on the circuit." She turned in chair to look at Lestrade. "Captain? You actually spend time at the rodeos. Do you recall anything?"

Lestrade frowned, rubbing his palm over his chin. "Mind you, if I knew anything for certain, I'd have reported it already…I just recall him being a bit standoffish, the few times I'd seen him." 

"That's hardly a crime," Sherlock observed. "What about his trailer? Did you investigate it for evidence of possible foul play?"

"The forensics team did," Lestrade answered before Donovan could. "During her interview, Ms. Hooper mentioned that it was unlocked when she knocked on the door. They dusted for prints, but the only ones they found were Mr. Straker's and the ones Ms. Hooper left on the door handle and light switch."

"That doesn't mean anything," Sherlock pointed out. "It is entirely possible that somebody could have worn gloves. Was anything missing?"

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, we are aware of that trick," Donovan retorted, "and to answer your question, not that we could see. Our team found several hundred dollars cash in one of the bedside drawers…not something a burglar would likely overlook, assuming there even was one."

"Several hundred? Not several thousand?" Sherlock latched onto the discrepancy.

"The report said several hundred…for all we know, Straker could have blown it at a bar or something. Cash is easy to spend and harder to track." 

"True," Sherlock conceded grudgingly. "Any witnesses to the evening?"

"Just a possible one, a cowhand named Ned Hunter. He mentioned that he heard raised voices from inside the Bill Cody building around midnight, but we've had trouble nailing down the facts." 

"Why only possible?"

"Because Mr. Hunter tested with a BAC level of 0.29%," Donovan replied, her tone dry. "One of our officers found him passed out in one of the stalls two aisles over. Apparently it's a bit of a miracle that he didn't choke to death on his own vomit."

Sherlock frowned, drumming his fingers on Donovan's desk in irritation. "You mentioned Ross and Straker as possible suspects. Anybody else? You mentioned you interviewed Molly Hooper." 

"We interviewed Ms. Hooper as a formality," Lestrade clarified, "since she's the individual who found the body. She's not considered a suspect at this time."

"We have questioned Kitty Riley," Donovan added, "since she managed to get her hands on some classified photographs, though she refused to name her source. She's citing 'freedom of the press' and 'the right of the public to know'. There's a photo of her in that file, along with a copy of her internet exposé." Donovan paused, glancing sideways at Lestrade before turning her attention back to Sherlock. "The vet who was there first—John Watson—is also currently considered a person of interest." 

"Wait, what? You can't still seriously be suspicious of John Watson," Lestrade interrupted, his expression disbelieving. "John's a good guy!"

"I can and I will." Donovan shot back. "You, yourself, said that it was kinda unbelievable how fast he got Devil's Blaze tranked."

"Well," Lestrade spluttered, "you know what he's like…he's a bloody good vet…all that practice he's had riding broncos and working at rodeos and all." 

"Uh uh," Donovan returned, her tone skeptical. "According to the people I've interviewed, John Straker knew his way around horses too…and look where that got him? I've read your report, Captain Lestrade, and I've seen the coroner's photographs. I also spoke to the paramedics that were there that night. From what it sounded like, only John Watson could have gotten a syringe into that horse without getting killed…he picks a fight with Doctor Sterndale, gets the other man fired, and then gets hired on as Candii Ross's new vet for the Triple C? It's a bit amazing, really…almost unbelievable." 

"And your point is?" Lestrade asked gruffly. 

"You know what my point is, you just don't want to think about it, despite the fact that it is our _duty_ ," Donovan stressed the last word, "to be impartial in our investigations and consider all possible suspects, even the ones we consider friends." 

"Oh?" Sherlock interjected, his tone inviting Donovan to continue.

Donovan turned to meet Sherlock's questioning expression and shrugged. "I've been researching veterinarian salaries," she explained. "Depending on where they practice, a rodeo veterinarian might make between thirty thousand to fifty thousand a year. The take home's quite a bit less because of travel expenses and the irregular nature of the profession. By contrast—according to her financial records, mind—Candii Ross paid Doctor Sterndale almost ninety thousand in vet fees alone last year. As her new vet, John Watson'll get a sizeable boost in his income; far more than he probably makes as a rodeo vet, though I'd have to see his tax returns to confirm it. Then you add in the fact that he arranged for that psycho horse to be transported to Doctor Sawyer's clinic, where he also works? You can't tell me that doesn't seem a little…convenient…especially with that older sister of his—"

"Tell me about the sister," Sherlock interrupted.

"She's an alcoholic," Donovan said bluntly. "Been arrested multiple times for drunk driving and possession of drugs. Can't hold down a job. Her younger brother is the one that keeps bailing her out of trouble. There's a whole file on her. Court costs can't be cheap…neither can rehab." 

"Interesting," Sherlock said, tapping his fingers against his lip. "Your theory is circumstantial at best, but logical. And Ms. Ross's former veterinarian, Leon Sterndale?"

Donovan shook her head. "I considered him…he wouldn't be the first vet hired to kill a horse so somebody could collect on the insurance proceeds, but if that was the case, then why the hell would Candii Ross fire him and hire another vet? How does he benefit from that horse being dead? Especially if it was a fuck up on his part? It doesn't make sense."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. Donovan had put her finger squarely on the point that continued to bother him.

Donovan shrugged, exchanging looks with Lestrade again. "And you? Any theories you care to share?" 

"It's a mistake to theorize before one has all the data," Sherlock informed Donovan brusquely. "Invariably it results in twisting facts to suit theories, instead of developing theories to suit facts. That being said," Sherlock continued, "in my experience, horses very rarely go 'mad' without a good reason…and that Candi Ross's suspicion of an unprescribed chemical agent being given to her horse is not entirely unreasonable, though I do not believe she is the culprit. Are you familiar with the name Brenda Tregennis?"

Donovan furrowed her brow. "The name sounds vaguely familiar? I think there was a blurb about it on the news a few weeks back?" 

Lestrade looked sad. "That's that teenage barrel rider in Arizona, right? My daughter's been talking about her. She and some of the other members of her 4-H club were talking about trying to do some sort of a fundraiser to help her buy a new horse after she gets out of the hospital."

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered, pulling out his mobile and doing a quick internet search. A moment later, he passed it over to Donovan. "Flagstaff, Arizona. Brenda Tregennis was grooming her horse in its stall when it attacked her and almost killed her. No evidence of animal abuse, and no suspicion of foul play. The animal was euthanized, but the subsequent necropsy turned up no sign of rabies. As you may recall, Doctor Sterndale initially suspected Devil's Blaze had been infected with rabies. Granted, rabies can only be successfully diagnosed in a deceased animal, and Devil's Blaze successfully passed the quarantine period without dying, but the similarities between two previously docile animals suddenly going berserk are striking, don't you agree?"

Donovan nodded slowly, obviously weighing Sherlock's words against her own suspicions as she read through the article. She picked up her pen and scribbled another note to herself. _JW—check vet roster. Flagstaff, AZ_. Sherlock read it easily, despite it being upside down. Donovan handed the phone back to Sherlock with a grimace, tapping the nib of her pen reflexively against the surface of her desk, the impact making soft, little ticking sounds. "So tell me, Mr. Holmes…what are some of the ways a horse might be drugged?"

"Oh, there's a multitude of methods," Sherlock replied absently, picking up the file to start thumbing through Donovan's records. "Orally is probably the simplest. Sweet cob can be dusted with powdered morphine just as easily as it can be with vitamins. Administering a substance via injection is also a possibility. Quite a few horse owners are familiar with the way to properly perform an intramuscular or subcutaneous injection on their animal. Drugs can also be given intravenously, though that is not recommended unless the party in question possesses adequate equine medical training."

"But those would show up on the tests, wouldn't they?" Lestrade asked, stepping forward and picking up one of the reports at Donovan's nod of permission. He cleared his throat, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he re-read the lines of hand-scribbled text.

"Mmmmm…not necessarily," Sherlock pointed out. "Certainly not if the vet didn't know to test for them." At Donovan's and Lestrade's confused expressions, Sherlock rolled his eyes towards the ceiling in disgust. "Equine drug testing is usually applied to performance horses in certain types of sports…racing being the most common, followed by endurance riding or any Olympic or other FEI-sanctioned international event. Your average equine vet, used to working on somebody's pet? No. Why would they? Though labs are readily available, the tests are expensive, and not something the average horse owner is likely to want to pay for. Morphine is a controlled substance, and not something most vets will routinely prescribe to horses because in addition to the potential excitability factor, it can stop the intestine, resulting in potentially fatal colic. Now, before you can ask," Sherlock added, holding up a hand, "I have reviewed Devil's Blaze's veterinary records. Doctor Watson did, indeed, check for morphine and other narcotics while he was subjecting Devil's Blaze to a battery of other tests, and the results came back negative."

"What's the usual methodology for testing horses for drugs?" 

"Blood and/or urine analysis usually," Sherlock replied, flipping over another page and skimming through the summarization of Joe Straker's criminal record. Nothing unusual. Nothing he hadn't already uncovered himself during his own research. "At racing competitions," Sherlock continued, "40-50 milliliter samples—sometimes blood, sometimes urine, sometimes both—are taken from the winner and at least 5% of the other horses. The specimens are collected by either the inspector or a qualified individual in the presence of the inspector before being sent off collectively to an independent laboratory for testing."

"Is it possible to fake a test by giving the horse something, or tampering with the kit, or sending off a fake specimen?" Donovan inquired with a tilt of her head.

"You mean the way some jockeys do by drinking vinegar, taking diuretics or herbal supplements, flushing their system by drinking excessive amounts of water or Lucozade? Or, better yet, employing the use of a Whizzinator or taping a vial of clean urine to the inside of their groin to keep it at body temperature before trying to pass it off as their own?" Sherlock asked. He recognized the reasoning behind Donovan's questions. They weren't stupid by any means; he'd already considered the same scenario himself. At Donovan's nod, Sherlock shrugged. "To answer your questions, the answers are highly unlikely, no, and possibly." At the dual expressions of confusion, Sherlock sniffed once before beginning to explain. "At competitions, samples are collected using a specially designated kit provided by the controlling authorities to prevent tampering. Each sample is assigned a unique number that does not allow the lab to identify the horse it came from. The paperwork identifying which number is assigned to which horse is kept separate and secured, making it impossible for a trainer or owner to tell the specimens apart or tamper with them even if they did somehow get access. Now, that is at the performance level. For a rural vet? Especially if he or she was in charge of both collection and interpretation of the results? Substitution of a contaminated sample for a clean one would be child's play."

"I see," Donovan said slowly, turning to write another note on her pad. _Check 'fridge security_ , Sherlock read. "How good are the tests?"

"Good, but not perfect. Laboratories routinely screen race horse samples for over two hundred different banned and controlled substances. The trouble is that novel substances and new off-label uses for legal medications evolve faster than commercial laboratories or conventional drug screens can catch them. That is where experts such as myself come in," Sherlock replied, with no trace of modesty. "Just because nothing has shown up thus far, doesn't mean that there's nothing there to find. I'll know more if I can get my hands on the records of Brenda Tregennis's horse." 

"Speaking of tests and samples…" Lestrade interjected, reaching into his pouch and pulling out the evidence bags holding Sherlock's collection tubes and tools. He held up the bags and shot Sherlock a dark look, before passing them over to Donovan. "Mr. Holmes was collecting these when I busted him for trespassing on the crime scene." 

Sherlock spared a moment of gratitude that Lestrade hadn't frisked him and was thus unaware of the other items secreted inside his coat lining. Explaining some of the contents would be…awkward. Especially the ketamine, micro-taser and the zipties… 

Donovan took the bags, holding them up to the light. She opened the first one and pulled out the tube with the scraping of feed and turned it over slowly. "What's this?" Donovan asked, directing her attention to Sherlock.

"Horse feed," Sherlock told her curtly. "From the stall. Like I said, horses very rarely 'go mad' without a good reason…a chemical contaminant is a logical place to start. Unfortunately, I won't be able to tell if his feed was adulterated until I run my own tests, using my own, highly specialized tools." 

Donovan pursed her lips and turned the tube over several more times, before reluctantly returning the slim plastic vial to Sherlock's possession. "Fine. You can have it back, but I want to know the results when you do complete your tests." She gave Sherlock a pointed look. "I'm trusting you to work with me, Mr. Holmes—"

"Fine."

"So don't run around stealing evidence. If you find something, make that _anything_ strange, you report it to me, you understand?"

Sherlock barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes, settling instead for a nod.

After giving Sherlock a final hard look, Donovan turned her attention towards Lestrade. "Captain? I know this isn't strictly your division, but since you work security at the fairgrounds, can you keep an eye on Holmes?"

Lestrade ran his tongue over his teeth, before nodding once.

"Thanks." Donovan wrote down another note on her pad. "Have you spoken to the Flagstaff PD about your suspicions?"

"Not yet. I only arrived in Texas late last night."

"That's probably for the best then," Donovan told him. "Professional courtesy and all. I'll look up who's in charge over in that precinct, see if I can't arrange for whoever responded to the 911 call to meet with you, maybe get you a copy of the police report."

Sherlock blinked. "That would actually be…surprisingly helpful," Sherlock told her.

Donovan inclined her head. "Right." She glanced up at the clock and grimaced. "I need to finish up some paperwork before I head home. Are we done here for now?"

"I believe so."

Donovan reached into her desk and pulled out a business card, taking a moment to write a phone number on the back. "This is my personal cell," she told Sherlock, handing him the card, "Call me the moment you get those test results."

"I prefer to text," Sherlock replied, standing up and sliding the card into his wallet. "But I will. Coming, Captain?" Ignoring the sour look Donovan aimed at his back, Sherlock hurried down the hallway. Behind him, he heard Lestrade say his goodbyes before scrambling to catch up. 

"Why not John Watson?" Sherlock demanded once they were outside in the parking lot.

"Pardon?" Lestrade asked, unlocking the passenger side door and indicating Sherlock should get in the front, rather than the back.

"John Watson. Despite Detective Donovan's farfetched, but not unreasonable assumption that he could be behind whatever's affected two horses, you seem convinced that he's innocent. Why?"

"Two reasons," Lestrade began, taking his hand off the key and turning to meet Sherlock's inquisitive gaze. "The first being is I've known John since he was a kid, and I've watched him grow up into a good man, despite the shitty hand he was dealt by life. He's the spitting image of his grandpa, Edward Hardwicke, in morals, if not in looks. A guy that sometimes volunteers his services at 4-H events for underprivileged kids isn't the type to run around poisoning animals for money. It'd violate his Hippocratic Oath, or whatever oath it is that vets swear by." 

"And the second?" Sherlock asked, deciding not to mention that many vets, especially in the racing profession did so on a regular basis.

Lestrade shrugged. "He's a damn good vet…Animals like him, horses especially. He can get a terrified animal calmed down unbelievably fast."

"I see." 

"You really think those horses were drugged?" Lestrade asked.

"I think that there is a distinct probability that the horses were drugged," Sherlock corrected, pulling out his mobile and beginning another search. 

"But you don't think Candii Ross is responsible?"

"No," Sherlock told him bluntly, wrinkling his nose at the results he pulled up, dismissing them with a flick of his thumb and opening a different tab. 

"Well maybe she's trying to be clever," Lestrade pointed out. "Throw you off the scent, or something."

Sherlock paused in his typing to look over at the police captain, an incredulous expression on his face. "Don't be an idiot, Captain Lestrade. If Candii Ross's half as intelligent as she's reputed to be, the last thing she would do is hire me to investigate the situation." 

"Well if it wasn't her, and I don't think John's to blame, then who?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, "but I'm determined to find out."

~*~


	7. Denim and Leather

~*~

"Here you go," Molly chirped, distracting Sherlock from glaring at his mobile. She pulled into an empty spot in the car park between a monstrously-oversized Ford pickup truck and an extremely dusty gold Nissan Quest minivan and turned to give Sherlock a hesitant smile. "My class doesn't end until four. Are you sure you'll be okay until then?"

"I'll be fine," Sherlock reassured her, looking up from the mobile screen and giving her his practiced shamming smile. "I want to spend some time studying the stall where Devil's Blaze was housed the night Straker was killed…see if maybe I spot what could have potentially triggered him. I also need to pick up a birthday gift for my grandmother. Her birthday is next month and I thought she'd appreciate something handmade." 

It was a combination of a partial truth and a lie. He fully intended to purchase a gift of some type. Mrs. Hudson's birthday wasn't until May, which was several weeks away, but with international shipping, it would likely take something that long to arrive at 221A Baker Street. Saying that he was seeking a birthday gift for his grandmother was also a conveniently endearing excuse, ensuring both a ride from Molly and a reason to return to the fairgrounds without arousing suspicion. The real risk lay with Mrs. Hudson herself. 

Referring to her as his mother would have been fine, considering that the woman unashamedly viewed him as an adopted son (despite her frequent protests that she was his landlady, not his housekeeper). To Sherlock's smug satisfaction, Mrs. Hudson's instinctive maternal possessiveness routinely found useful outlets in the way she brought Sherlock tea in the mornings, the regular deliveries of fresh-baked scones and her tolerant resignation when presented with yet another shirt or pair of trousers that had been stained with something best left unnamed. If, however, she found out that Sherlock had deliberately described her as his _grandmother_ because he made him sound more endearing, his landlady would have no compunctions about enacting a suitable revenge. The memory of the capsaicin-laced ginger nuts she'd baked for him as a 'gift' after an unfortunate episode involving an equine brain, her favourite trifle dish and a bottle of chloroform was enough to make him wince with remembered pain. 

"Oh…that's very sweet of you, actually," Molly commented, interrupting Sherlock's mental ramblings. "What does she like?" Molly asked, tilting her head to the side in a move that she probably hoped came across as flirtatious, but instead put Sherlock in mind of the songbirds that used to flit around the gardens and feeder tables at the Holmes family estate. A Chaffinch, perhaps, or maybe a wren: something small, brown and overly talkative, at least. 

"Herbal soothers," Sherlock replied, answering her question before he could think to censor himself. 

"Oh, like herbal teas?" Molly said, completely oblivious. "I know just the spot, my friend Iris told me about it. It's a booth named 'Tranquili-tea.' A really sweet hippie couple owns it; they make all these different herbal teas from organic herbs they grow on their farm. I especially love the pumpkin spice rooibos and their lemon mango blend."

"Tranquility?" Sherlock repeated, feigning interest as he unbuckled his seatbelt. 

"Yes…like tranquil-tea, the kind you drink," Molly explained, her eyebrows innocently raised, her lips twitching in amusement.

Sherlock pulled a disgusted face, belatedly recognizing the pun. "Right," he said, ignoring Molly's amused expression. Opening the door, he climbed out of the truck, the heels of his boots sliding slightly on the loose grit and gravel dusting the pavement before he found his balance. "It's almost ten. You'd better go. Text me when you return. I'll meet you by the entrance gate."

"Oh, um, okay," Molly stammered, looking slightly hurt at how fast Sherlock exited the truck. "And afterwards, we'll go get coffee at 'Ground Zero'?"

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked absently, his left hand preparing to close the cab's door, his attention already focused again on the screen of his phone. The bright glare of the sun was making it difficult for him to read it.

"Coffee?" Molly repeated, her tone hesitant. She swallowed. "I…invited you earlier this week, and you agreed…Isn't that why you wanted to come to town with me today?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock replied belatedly, tucking his phone away into his back pocket. He turned around and made sure to brace his arms against the roof of the cab as he leaned forward. The angle stretched his body out and incidentally gave Molly a good view of his lean frame, while the vee of his unbuttoned shirt collar accented the suprasternal notch at the base of his throat and offered Molly a glimpse of his pale chest. Ducking his head, Sherlock blinked slowly as he gave Molly a slightly warmer version of his usual fake smile. "My apologies, I lost track of the days this week, I've been so busy working with Devil's Blaze. Yes, coffee. Coffee is good." 

Molly's face went through a series of different micro-expressions: confusion, skepticism and doubt before settling on what Sherlock recognized as 'eternally hopeful'. "Okay…well, call me if you need anything. I'll be in class, but I'll have my phone handy. You still have my number, right?" She flushed when Sherlock nodded with exaggerated patience. "Okay. Right. I'll…um…see you around five, then. Have fun," Molly chirped as she started the truck, the upward intonation of her voice on the final word making it sound more like a question then a directive. 

Sherlock kept his smile plastered on his face, even going so far as to wave goodbye when he saw Molly glance back at him in her rearview mirror. The moment Molly's truck turned the corner, however, Sherlock's face fell back into its normally severe lines and he dropped his arm back to his side. Reaching up, he adjusted brim of his hat to offer a little more protection to his eyes. The sun was already high and bright, despite the relatively early morning hour. 

Satisfied with the angle, Sherlock tucked his hands into the pockets of his snug jeans and began walking towards the rows of prefabricated metal buildings. He spared a longing thought for his beloved Belstaff, with its deep pockets and high collar. Unfortunately, it wasn't something a cowboy would wear. He'd also opted to leave his current denim jacket behind in his cabin. Wearing it in the current heat would be uncomfortable and simply attract unnecessary attention.

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock sidestepped a pile of dog faeces that some irresponsible pet owner had left behind, despite multiple signs politely urging people to clean up after their pets. The hot air made the already unpleasant smell rank. London had its own areas with nauseating odours: the public loos in customs, the concentrated stench of bird faeces around certain gardens and the reek of piss and vomit in the tourist or student-saturated alleys around Leicester Square or Stoke Newington, but it was still preferable to the smell of greasy popcorn, engine exhaust and manure that permeated this end of the fairgrounds. 

When he'd checked the fairgrounds' website earlier, he'd noted two different events were scheduled to occur at opposite ends of the grounds. One was the weekly farmers' market, (hence the convenient excuse of shopping for a gift), the other was some sort of stock show event. The particulars didn't matter. The presence of a mixed crowd of adults, children, ranchers and weekend shoppers meant that he could explore the area in daylight without arousing suspicion. In his faded jeans, purple plaid shirt, boots and hat, Sherlock was just one more cowboy in the sea of men and women surrounding him. Some, like Sherlock, wore the ubiquitous rancher outfit of denim, leather, chambray or plaid. Others were clad in skirts, sandals, khaki slacks and brightly-coloured shirts. As he walked, Sherlock also spotted several teenagers of various, indeterminate ages wearing shorts and sleeveless shirts, despite the blistering sun overhead. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as one of the aforedescribed youths brushed past him with the telltale redness of what would later be a spectacular (if minor) radiation burn on the back of his neck and shoulders. Sherlock snorted at the display of idiocy, privately grateful for his hat's wide brim, as well as Mrs. Hudson's insistence that he pack sun cream. Mycroft would undoubtedly revel in the chance to gloat if Sherlock returned to England red and peeling, which would hopefully be sooner, rather than later. 

Assuming he could somehow find a lead to actually begin solving the bloody case, Sherlock thought with irritation as he continued to walk. 

The past few days since he'd arrived had been busy and more than a little frustrating. Regardless of the day, ranch hands arose before the sun to take advantage of the maximum number of hours of available daylight, something that had required him to make adjustments to his own sleep schedule in order to blend in. He was a night owl naturally, preferring to stay up late and enjoy an indulgent lie-in until early afternoon on the days he did deign to sleep. Long experience had taught him the wee morning hours were ideal for performing uninterrupted research or experiments in peaceful solitude. Unfortunately, such a schedule ran contrary to his current persona. 

For the sake of his cover, he'd been forced to join the staff at breakfast on Thursday, one of the two communal meals at the ranch that everybody was expected to attend. He'd hoped it would result in some potentially useful leads, but thus far he'd been disappointed. Even verbal and non-verbal sparring matches with Mycroft or scoldings from Mrs. Hudson regarding the state of his refrigerator would be preferable to enduring repeated conversations about sport team statistics, petrol prices, speculations about the weather, or complaints about various elected officials. Worse still were the plethora of prying questions he'd received from two female ranch hands. 

In appearance, Edith Baxter and Alice Turner could have been sisters. Both had heart-shaped faces and long brown hair frosted with blond streaks. Their builds were similar too—leggy and athletic, with well developed leg muscles and broad shoulders. They'd introduced themselves with the same blunt flirtiness as the blonde he'd encountered at the airport and promptly sat down at the table without an invitation, one on either side of him. He'd learned that they divided their time between riding, grooming, cleaning tack and helping muck out stalls. Both wore belt buckles identifying them as experienced barrel racers. They'd also been quite interested in wheedling out personal details, including his relationship status. Was he married? (No). Did he have any siblings? (Unfortunately yes). Did he compete in rodeos? (No). Did he like dancing? (Yes). Was he single? (Yes). Was he looking? ("No," Sherlock had replied, being careful to let his gaze linger on where Molly was filling her plate, and allowing a shy, hopeful smile to curve his lips). Instead of being put off, as he'd hoped, the two women had exchanged speculative expressions, clearly communicating silently. Fortunately, at that point, Nat Tsedaa', the ranch foreman, had rapped on the table, to indicate the start of the morning meeting, sparing him from further innatites. 

The foreman had made sure to introduce 'Billy Scott' to the rest of the staff as the expert Candii Ross had hired to rehabilitate Devil's Blaze and to inform everybody to give Sherlock their complete cooperation, before launching into a brief overview of the day's schedule. Sherlock hadn't missed Socorro Valdez or Carlos Montoya's expressions of relief at the news that 'Billy' would be taking over Blaze's care. Nor had he missed the somewhat dark looks that the Tredannick brothers had sent him, though he didn't know why. The rest of the employees, Kate Holdridge, Cole Johnson and Mark Spencer had looked at Sherlock with varying shades of curiosity or bemusement.

Sherlock grimaced, pausing in his musings long enough to turn sideways and edge his way through a gap between two badly parked vehicles, before straightening back out. At some point, he'd likely have to subject himself to one of those 'Western Nights' tours that Molly had mentioned, if only to better understand the motivations of the other ranch hands. People tended to let slip the most useful pieces of information in casual conversation. Both Molly Hooper and Donovan had mentioned that Straker was a known womanizer. Lestrade had also mentioned that Straker was resented for his gambling success. Human nature being what it was, there was a chance, though extremely slim, that somebody could have sabotaged the horse for revenge against Straker, rather than Ross. 

But that was an investigation for another day, Sherlock reminded himself firmly as he approached the main part of the fairgrounds. Today's trip was to survey the stall that Devil's Blaze had been housed in in broad daylight, investigate the barns that Candii Ross's animals had been housed in and perhaps, if he was lucky, find another witness to the night Straker was killed. 

He glanced briefly at the farmers' market booths before deciding to give them a wide berth. He could pick up a present for Mrs. Hudson towards the end of the day, rather than purchase it early and then be obliged to carry it while he investigated. Decision reached, Sherlock turned and strode towards the stock show, easily weaving through shoppers. The crowd was annoying, but at least they were no worse than an average street in London. 

The buildings looked different in the daylight, Sherlock noted as he walked, his sharp eyes observing everything. More shabby, certainly. It was easier to see the places where patches of metal had rusted or where portions of some roofs had been replaced after being damaged by either hail or winds. Clearly routine fairground maintenance was not the primary concern of whoever was responsible for the venue's upkeep.

With a loud electronic screech, the outdoor PA system crackled to life and a man with a heavy drawl proceeded to cheerfully inform the crowds that the judging for the Braunvieh Cattle Show, Youth Division, would be starting in the Weeks' Arena in thirty minutes. Over the screeching of the microphone, Sherlock could hear the whinneys of annoyed horses and the lowing of unhappy cattle crammed together in pens. It was an irritating cacophony of sound made worse by the rumbling of oversized diesel engines. 

A pocket of relative stillness caught his eye and Sherlock turned to see Captain Lestrade, standing beside his partner, Scotty. The man and horse were both in full uniform, ostensibly there for the purpose of crowd control, but the way that the two were posing for pictures with children made it clear that their primary focus for the day was community outreach. Sherlock spent a minute leaning against a convenient wall, admiring the training that had gone into the dapple-gray mount. The horse stood calmly with eyes semi-closed and ears relaxed while idiots with yappy dogs walked by and small children shrieked in excitement. He was about to continue walking when a sudden shout followed by the high-pitched scream of a frightened horse cut through the air. Sherlock immediately stepped away from the wall. It was dangerous to be trapped between a solid surface and an angry animal. The crowd surged back, clearly trying to escape danger. Through a gap in the parting crowd, Sherlock could see the source of the noise. 

An unleashed small dog had escaped from his owner's arms and was nipping at a gelding's heels, oblivious to the fact that a single blow from the gelding's hooves would be fatal. The gelding was struggling to rear, while the horse's handler desperately tried to control him by pulling down on the lead rope attached to his halter. The dog's owner, meanwhile, was yelling and waving her arms at the dog in an ineffective effort to make her pet stop barking and to return—actions that were almost certainly adding to the horse's fear. 

As Sherlock watched, the frightened gelding gave one last jerk of his head, tearing the halter rope from the young man's hands and sending him sprawling flat on his back on the hard ground. Sherlock moved forward, intending to grab the lead before the horse could bolt through the panicking crowd, but help from an unexpected quarter got there first.

Before the horse could take more than a few running steps, a short, blond cowboy shoved his way through the fleeing crowd at an angle to the horse's shoulder and grabbed the halter rope. He dug his heels into the ground and jerked the rope downwards, the muscles in his arms and legs standing out sharply against the taut fabric of his jeans and shirt and the leather chaps he wore on his legs. The sudden resistance was just enough to interrupt the horse's forward motion and spin him slightly sidewise. Taking advantage of the pause, the cowboy grabbed a handful of mane and smoothly boosted himself on the horse's back with an ease that Sherlock found impressive, considering the horse's height relative to the man's stature. 

Feeling the sudden presence of a rider on his back, the gelding attempted to rear again, but was thwarted when the cowboy leaned forward and gripped the horse's withers with his thighs, using his body weight as a counter balance. Undaunted, the gelding began to buck and kick, clearly torn between driving away the small dog that was still circling it and dislodging the skilled rider who clung to his back like a limpet without even the benefit of a saddle or stirrups. Even though Sherlock couldn't hear what the cowboy was saying, the movement of his lips made it clear that he was talking calmly to the frightened horse, rather than yelling or threatening.

Not that it was having any visible effect. The horse was too busy panicking, despite the rider's efforts. 

There was a clatter of hooves from behind him, heralding Lestrade's arrival. Not wanting to have attention drawn to him yet, Sherlock stepped back with the rest of the crowd, easily fading into the doorway of one of the barns. Lestrade, meanwhile, took one look at the situation and barked at the remaining onlookers to move further back. "Alright there, John?" Lestrade yelled, moving his mount into position where he could help block the horse if it did start running.

"I'm fine," the cowboy yelled back from where he was still struggling with the horse, his pelvis rocking in an easy rhythm with the gelding's movements. "But I'd be better if I could get him to calm down," John continued, his voice raised, but otherwise calm and controlled. "Would somebody get that damn dog out of here? It's just making this hard—" The gelding changed tactics, going from bucking to running. John swore once, a brief, cut-off exclamation even as he yanked downward on the halter's lead, attempting to pull the gelding's head down to its knees so it couldn't run. At the change in pressure the gelding began jerking and twisting his head, trying to pull his head free. The blond man's arms strained with the effort of keeping his grip and Sherlock had to tamp down a sudden surge of unexpected and utterly inappropriate lust. 

"I've got him!" a third cowboy, wearing a distinctive red hat yelled, as he stepped forward. He was light on his feet and moved surprisingly fast, Sherlock observed, despite his bowed legs and the evidence of past hip trauma. The third man ran around towards the horse's rear, dodging the lashing hooves of the gelding with the ease of somebody used to avoiding potentially fatal blows from a large animal. Pulling his hat off, the cowboy began to use it as a sort of cape, or scoop, flicking it in the dog's face and driving the idiot animal back and away from certain death. When the dog was far enough away, the man dropped his hat over the growling, yapping animal, effectively trapping the irritating beast within, before picking it up and retreating backwards to safety.

"Thanks Fizzy!" John called, finally managing to get the gelding's head to turn. "What is it with you rodeo clowns and your perfect timing?"

"Oh, I don't know," the rodeo clown yelled sarcastically, moving even further back, the dog still trapped in his hat. "Maybe it's because nothing quite motivates you like almost two tons of angry bull charging at you?"

"Yeah, yeah, so you've said before!" John returned, still balancing to maintain his seat. 

With the dog removed, the horse soon stopped bucking and kicking but he didn't stop trying to bolt. To Sherlock's surprise, rather than jerking even harder on the horse's halter, John responded by easing his grip on the gelding's lead rope to give the horse a tiny bit more headroom while simultaneously kicking him in the ribs in a wordless demand to move forward. The gelding immediately tried to run, but John kept his grip on the lead light and adjusted his seat and legs, skillfully directing the horse into a vigorous trot instead. He aimed for a gap in the crowd and towards one of the outlying buildings. After they had traveled a good twenty feet, John raised his left arm, pulling the horse's halter to the left and began riding him in a large circle that decreased in size a degree or two at a time. 

Sherlock blinked, his interest caught. It was a textbook example of lateral flexion, or disengagement: a riding tactic that effectively put a horse into neutral by forcing it to pay close attention to its rider and then stopping its feet gradually. Allowing the horse to move was an intelligent move that reduced the fear factor, while the circular pattern kept the horse from bolting. As he walked, the gelding's ears started to shift, going from frightened to curious to relaxed. His pace also continued to slow under John's direction, transitioning gradually from 'brisk trot' to 'slow walk'. By the time John brought the gelding to a halt in front of his grateful owner, the animal was calm enough to chuff and gently nudge the teenager in the chest when the boy reached up to pet the horse's muzzle. John grinned, saying something that caused the teen to laugh and handed the lead line over before dismounting with the same easy grace Sherlock had already admired. One of John's hands dipped into a pocket and a moment later the gelding was crunching something with great enthusiasm. 

_A peppermint, or some other treat_ , Sherlock decided, based on the relatively small size of whatever it was. He was impressed. For a frightened horse to calm down that quickly, it had to trust the human on hand and view them as a source of safety and security. Generally it was a lengthy process, involving days, if not months of training, depending on the horse's background. The fact that the blond cowboy had managed such a feat, while bareback, on top of a strange and frightened horse was an admirable display of his knowledge of equine communication, equine psychology and riding skill. 

In the meantime, Lestrade, seeing that the gelding was back under control, dismounted from his own horse. He dropped the reins over his horse's head, a technique known as 'ground-tying' and strode over to where the red-hatted man was standing, the small yappy dog held firmly in his grip. As Sherlock watched, the police captain proceeded to negotiate the return of the pet to its owner, along with the addition of ticket for failure to keep the dog properly restrained on a lead. The fine was almost certainly sizable, Sherlock deduced, if the angry gestures and body language of the owner were any indicator. Dismissing them as unimportant, Sherlock returned his attention to John and the horse.

Sherlock drifted closer, being careful to stay behind the crowd, and watched as the cowboy began to run his hands over the gelding's legs, his touch confident, but gentle. The cowboy also picked up the horse's hooves to inspect them, turning to address the horse's owner as he pointed out spots of interest. Sherlock caught the words 'tetanus' and 'abscess'. The man and owner were obviously checking for injuries from dog bites. It was a prudent course of action, considering that animal bites could easily become infected. Satisfied, the blond cowboy eventually straightened up, giving Sherlock his first clear view of his face. Belatedly, Sherlock recognized him as John Watson, one of the vets he needed to investigate as a potential suspect. Well, that explained the exam, though not necessarily the riding skill.

Seeing Lestrade approach John, Sherlock made the abrupt decision to leave. The last thing he wanted Lestrade to do was either accidentally or deliberately blow his cover to the vet before Sherlock had had the opportunity to meet (and deduce) him on his own terms.

~*~

Sherlock growled as he strode down the concrete aisle of yet another barn. The building was miserably hot and filled with cattle. They were lowing, jostling and generally creating a fetid mess of the areas they'd been housed in. The atmosphere reeked of manure. The concentrated aroma of ammonia was enough to make his eyes water. Sherlock took a shallow breath, trying not to accidentally inhale a fly or cough on the dust floating everywhere.

He'd spent the last three hours strolling around the stock event studying horses, casually asking staff and competitors alike if they'd attended the Texas Tri-State Stock Show and Rodeo and, if they answered in the affirmative, whether they'd happened to notice anything anything unusual during either the bronco or bull-riding competitions. Unfortunately, his efforts had resulted in a series of dismissive shrugs and at least one threat of a punch to the face if he didn't quit poking his nose into other people's business.

His re-examination of the stall where Straker had been killed had been equally pointless; further analysis would have to wait until he could examine the samples he'd collected under a higher quality microscope. The microscope currently in the Triple C's veterinary barn was a decent model, but not up to his standards. Sherlock frowned, lost in thought. He could order one but…chewing absently on his lower lip, Sherlock pulled out his phone out and fired off a quick text to Donovan, demanding permission to use their police forensic lab. Still frowning, Sherlock thumbed open his internet browser, intending to check his email, impatiently tapping at the screen in a vain attempt to make it load faster. Internet speeds were abysmally slow in this part of the country, despite having paid for the upgrade that his provider assured him would ensure his service remained uninterrupted. His phone chimed, signaling an incoming message. Eagerly, he switched tabs again, instead of watching where he put his feet.

It turned out to be a painful mistake.

Sherlock yelped as his right boot abruptly skidded forward, overbalancing him. His arms flailed desperately, but gravity and the lack of friction took precedent, sending his body into a turn. His other leg folded at the sudden change of direction and Sherlock slammed into the floor into contorted fall, the movement too sudden and too awkward to let him tuck his chin against his chest or his arm against his body. His mobile went flying and landed somewhere with an ominous crunch. Worse still were the flashes of pain that erupted as both his arm and skull slammed into the pavement. 

"Hhhhsssss," Sherlock wheezed, breath gone, too shocked to even attempt movement. He blinked, trying to dispel the stars that had erupted across his occipital lobe, vaguely aware of the throbbing in his skull, arm and shoulder.

"Oh JESUS!" There was the sound of something being dropped, the clatter of running feet, and then there was a blurry figure approaching Sherlock's field of vision where he lay with the right side of his face pressed against the cold concrete, inches away from a clump of manure. "Don't move," the man's voice ordered as he dropped into a crouch beside Sherlock's huddled form, giving Sherlock a tantalizing whiff of clean sweat, dust, leather, and saddle oil to concentrate on instead of manure. "Just lie there…catch your breath. Blink once if you can understand me, alright?" The man's voice was soft, but firm, brooking no argument.

The voice was vaguely familiar, soothing tenor, Sherlock noted muzzily. It was infused with a sense of warmth that encouraged relaxation, but it also carried a tone of competent authority, inspiring trust. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to banish the blurriness and flecks of light before reopening them. It was harder than he anticipated; his thought process felt ridiculously slow. _Unsurprising_ , the analytical part of his mind observed dispassionately. Head trauma, even minor head trauma tended to have that effect. 

Sherlock blinked once, and then again, his eyes focusing on a pair of dark brown, moderately tooled leather cowboy boots. They were scuffed, but he could see where they'd clearly been polished recently. _Old_ , Sherlock observed, his mind beginning to categorize relevant information, _but obviously expensive and well cared for. Interesting_. Sherlock blinked again, his gaze traveling over the boots, taking in sinfully muscled legs clad in soft, faded denim and leather chaps. The stranger shifted in his crouch, his legs spreading just enough for Sherlock to catch a glimpse of the oversized, highly polished buckle the man wore on his elaborately-tooled belt. _Champion bronco rider_ , Sherlock noted, translating the meaning of the oversized engraved and embossed disk of metal with difficulty, _and still active. That's last year's date,_ his mind continued, while another part noticed the generous bulge visible beneath the denim. Swallowing around a suddenly-dry throat, Sherlock forced his bleary gaze to continue upward, noting the excellent musculature hidden underneath the fitted cotton the man wore before settling on the rider's face, which was frustratingly obscured by the brim of the wearer's Stetson. 

"Hey," the rider began, seemingly sensing Sherlock's frustration. He nudged the brim of his Stetson up, revealing eyes the same dark blue as his chambray shirt, before leaning close to better study Sherlock's face, his mouth set in a worried frown. 

_Oh_. Sherlock froze, blinking rapidly, stunned. He'd been grudgingly impressed by the vet's display of horsemanship earlier. Bareback riding took skill, even more so on a frightened animal determined to buck or rear. Not an impossible feat for a bronco riding champion, but still something noteworthy, especially since the vet had managed to calm the horse down through disengagement, rather than drugs. The careful way the vet had examined the gelding's legs had also been in keeping with the detailed medical notes included in Devil's Blaze's file. Anthea had made sure to include a head shot of each person she'd assembled a bio on, and the one of John Watson had depicted a short, rather plain man in ordinary, practical clothing: nothing special, nothing to warrant a second look. Up close, face-to-face however, was a whole different story. _The photograph_ , Sherlock thought dazedly, _really hadn't done the veterinarian justice_. 

Doctor John Watson was _gorgeous_. 

His skin was tanned a healthy bronze that put Sherlock's mind to caramel, a colour that was perfectly complimented by the blue cotton of his shirt. The open collar and rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealed sparse golden hairs that glinted in the light of the afternoon sun. Thin lips that parted enough to show a beguiling hint of tongue as the other man wet them. Sherlock blinked, swallowed, and blinked again. He could hear a distant part of his mind was screaming that he was being completely illogical, but he couldn't be arsed to care, not when he caught helplessly by the warm concern visible in the other man's gaze. 

"You okay?" John continued, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's stunned scrutiny. "That was quite a fall there."

"I'm fine," Sherlock wheezed, remembering at the last moment to pitch his voice low, his consonants soft. He made to sit up and immediately there was a warm, strong hand cupping his shoulder and easing him into a sitting position. "I just wasn't watching where I was going…it's…slippery…here, and I wasn't paying attention." 

The vet grinned. "A bit, yeah," he chuckled. "I'm guessing you don't work with cattle much if you can't see with your feet?"

Sherlock shook his head, a mistake he realized belatedly, when the throbbing in his skull abruptly intensified. "Horses, mostly," Sherlock replied, blinking to clear his gaze again and preparing to stand. Out of habit, he braced his right hand against the concrete, only to be rewarded with a stab of pain that shot through his wrist as he put pressure on the limb. Reflexively, Sherlock jerked his arm up off the floor with a hiss, bringing it to his chest where he held it protectively.

"Hold on, easy there!" John reached out, claiming the injured limb. Warm, callused hands cradled Sherlock's arm as John palpated the rapidly swelling area with gentle efficiency. Sherlock hissed involuntarily as the man's fingers pressed on a particularly painful point over one of the carpals. He made to jerk his arm back, but John's grip prevented him. "Sorry," John said apologetically, looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes, his expression concerned. "Can you wiggle your fingers? What about making a fist? Can you bend your wrist at all?" 

Sherlock tried, biting his lip and wincing, before giving up the last attempt as too painful. John's expression was grim as he watched Sherlock go through the range of requested motions. "Hold your hand out," John finally instructed. Leaving Sherlock's arm suspended in midair, he reached up and untied his neckerchief, folding it over several times to make a makeshift compression bandage which he proceeded to wrap snugly around Sherlock's wrist and hand with deft movements. "Based on the swelling, I'd say it looks like you've got a bad sprain, if not a break," John explained. "The compression bandage'll help stabilize it and minimize some of the swelling 'till you can get it looked at."

"You a doctor?" Sherlock asked curiously, tilting his head, his face giving no hint that the man currently bandaging his wrist was anything other than a complete stranger. Not strictly true. He'd read and re-read the detailed bios Anthea had supplied him with. Though they didn't give him much insight into John Watson's character, Sherlock already knew his middle name, his birth date and the basic details of his career. He could also make some preliminary deductions about the man, based on his current body language and actions. 

"Vet, actually," John replied, tying the ends the kerchief off in a tight square knot and giving the ends a slight tug, "but anatomy and injury are pretty similar cross-species. There, how does that feel?" 

"Better," Sherlock admitted grudgingly, wiggling his fingers slightly. It was true. His wrist still ached abominably, but the makeshift bandage helped, making it easier to ignore the complaints from his transport. 

"Good." The vet blew out a breath. "That's good. I'm glad I could help. My name's John, by the way, John Watson." The last part was said with a smile and a deliberate wink as he offered his left hand for a shake.

Sherlock blinked, an idea taking root as his brain finally finished coming back online. Detective Donovan's suspicions about the state of John Watson's finances, while based more on circumstantial, rather than direct evidence, were nevertheless logical enough to investigate. He could wait on the police with their warrants and court orders, but doing it himself would be faster. The vet was clearly interested in him personally. Feigning reciprocal interest would be the fastest way to gain John's trust and access to his personal information. The question was how to play it…swaggering and confident or shy and virginal? 

Sherlock tilted his head, studying John's compassionate expression and the proudly-cared-for buckle on his belt. The signs of an adrenaline-addicted hero complex in the vet's bearing were obvious; the blond man had come running at least thrice to render aid to a stranger in need, heedless of the injuries a wrathful or frightened equine could inflict. But his touch when he'd examined Sherlock and the gelding from earlier had been gentle, indicative of a highly compassionate nature. 

Shy and virginal it was.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and concentrated, causing a flush of colour to bloom on his cheeks. "Billy Scott," Sherlock replied with a tentative smile, his character firmly in place. "Horse trainer and equine rehabilitation expert." Reaching up, he returned John's handshake. It was awkward, shaking with his left hand, rather than his right, but he managed. The vet's hand was warm and firm with muscle, as was his grip. Sherlock could detect the calluses left by regular riding, one from the trigger of a gun and the slight roughness of dry skin.

"Nice to meet you Billy." John replied, giving Sherlock's hand a final squeeze before letting go. With a grunt, John straightened up from his crouch and extended his left hand again. "Think you can stand all right?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock extended his uninjured arm, allowing John's hand encircled his wrist. Sherlock's mouth stretched in a crooked smile as he looked up, seeing his bemusement mirrored on John's face. With a huff, Sherlock shifted his feet, ostensibly bracing himself, but in reality buying himself time to brush his first two fingers across John's wrist, measuring other man's pulse. It was fast, Sherlock noted, faster than would be warranted by exertion alone. Arousal, then. Good. He could work with that. 

"Ready?" John asked, one sandy eyebrow raised. At Sherlock's nod, John tugged. The muscles in the vet's forearm rippled smoothly as he pulled Sherlock to his feet with an easy strength that was deceptively belied by his shorter frame. 

Sherlock straightened, determined to ignore the way the way his skin seemed to tingle at John's touch, only to sway as the sudden change in blood pressure made the room darken alarmingly.

"Whoa there!" John said, stepping closer to steady Sherlock's lean frame. His left hand moved back to brace Sherlock's other shoulder, in preparation for a collapse. "Hang on a sec…"

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped, annoyed by the unexpected betrayal of his transport. He made a half-hearted effort to shrug loose, only to feel John's hand tighten on his shoulder in warning.

"Uh huh," John retorted, his blue eyes narrowed with concern. "That looked an awful lot like a potential syncope to me. How's your head?" John asked, not releasing his grip on Sherlock's shoulder. With his other hand, he reached up and tilted Sherlock's chin down so he could examine Sherlock's pupils. Sherlock swallowed in reaction. John's fingers were shockingly warm against his own cool skin. John's eyes were narrowed in concentration, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. "Did you hit it when you went down?" John demanded as he gently pushed on Sherlock's chin to turn his head from side to side, watching the way Sherlock's eyes moved in response to motion.

"I did, but that's not the problem…I just stood up too fast," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to wrest his chin from John's gentle grip. He swallowed, suppressing his habitual curtness with effort and modulating his tone into something warmer. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine," Sherlock added with a smile. 

"If you're sure…" John said, skepticism evident in his tone. He let go of Sherlock slowly, hands still raised to catch him if he swayed, before reluctantly taking a step back when Sherlock remained steady on his feet. John flexed his hands, then paused, raising his left hand to stare at it for a moment, before his nose wrinkled in disgust at the sight and smell of fresh manure smeared across the palm and fingers. "Well shit!" 

Sherlock blinked in confusion, before his nose abruptly registered the foetid mess of excrement smeared down his back. It was wet and cold as it oozed through his shirt, adding insult to injury. Oh well. It wasn't like he hadn't landed in worse before. Mrs. Hudson could testify to that fact. "Obviously," Sherlock replied after a moment, his tone dry. John surprised him by bursting into a fit of giggles.

"Sorry, sorry," John said, still giggling, his eyes bright, as he flicked his hand in a vain attempt to remove the worse of the filth, before giving up and holding his hand out to the side. "But of all the ways you could have responded, that wasn't the one I was expecting."

Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth and cracked a wry grin, his eyes crinkling. "My mama was vehemently opposed to swearing," Sherlock explained. "She would make me write essays on why nice boys didn't use certain words. I suppose that's why I've never have got into the habit as an adult." Not true. What really happened was the few attempts he'd tried had resulted in him having his mouth forcibly scrubbed out with lye soap by Nanny, but the lesson had still stuck.

"Yeah," John replied easily. Turning, he made his way to a metal utility sink mounted against the wall. It had long, torque style-taps, designed to be operated without having to be grasped to turn them on. John used the underside of his left forearm to turn the hot water on and proceeded to wash his hands with the customary thoroughness of any responsible individual involved in the medical profession. "I dated a girl named Mary who was like that," John remarked as he interlaced his fingers and began scrubbing the valleys between them. "Real religious household," John continued, turning his focus to his cuticles, oblivious to the way that Sherlock was watching him with fascination. "She's a sweet girl—well, woman now—but it didn't work out. Probably for the best, though, considering I'm a vet and a bronc rider and I've got my alma mater in cussin'." Sherlock huffed in amusement at the rueful smile John sent him and the vet's grin widened in response. John wiped his hands dry on a disposable towel then tucked them into the front pockets of his jeans, before turning to face Sherlock, his expression speculative. "Speaking of swearing…how do you feel about cold water?"

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked, thrown by the non-sequitur. 

John shrugged and rocked back on his heels, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "If you don't mind cold water, we can spray you and your shirt off. That way, you won't get cow shit all over your truck."

Sherlock blinked before nodding slowly in agreement, his expression one of extreme distaste. "Oh…yes, that would…probably be for the best." He walked slowly over the sink to where John was uncoiling a hose and screwing one end onto battered steel spigot sticking out of the wall. Unbuttoning his shirt with just one hand was awkward, but he managed and tossed the soiled cotton into the sink. "How do you want to do this?" Sherlock asked not missing the way John's eyes widened appreciatively at the sight of Sherlock's bare torso. 

"Oh! Um…well, I could, er, wipe off the worst of it with a towel," John began, "and then I could spray your back off and hopefully avoid getting your jeans too wet?"

"Please," Sherlock asked, turning around and waiting for John to put the hose down. There was a rustle of paper, and then the unpleasant sensation of cheap kitchen roll sheets rubbing across his skin. John's touch was gentle as he wiped Sherlock's back clean, but it was still a relief when he stopped.

"Okay, that's the worst of it then," John said, binning the last sheet. "Ready to rinse?"

Sherlock nodded once, then gritted his teeth as he heard John turn on the faucet. The spray struck his skin with icy droplets, raising gooseflesh and causing his nipples to pebble despite the stifling heat of the barn. It was a relief when the flow ceased. Tearing off several sheets of the kitchen roll, Sherlock began to scrub briskly, heedless of the redness the rough paper cloth left behind on his sensitive skin. John, meanwhile, dealt with his soiled shirt, rinsing it thoroughly in the sink before wringing out as much of the water as he could. 

"Here," John said, offering the shirt back. "It shouldn't take too long to dry, as hot as it is."

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, shrugging the shirt back on. The damp fabric clung unpleasantly to his skin, making him shiver. He managed to do up three buttons, enough to pass for decency's sake, before the throbbing of his wrist became too painful to ignore, even with the supportive bandage. "Have you seen my phone?" Sherlock asked, realising that he'd lost track of it in his fall.

"Um…no. What's it look like?"

"It's a black Apple iPhone…fourth generation, if you're wondering," Sherlock replied, turning to look around. He toed a pile of straw aside, revealing dirty concrete, but no phone. Blowing out a breath, Sherlock closed his eyes to better visualize potential impact points, based on the speed and angle of his fall.

"Oh…wait, here it is," John called out, interrupting Sherlock's mental calculations. Sherlock's eyes flew open just in time to see John bend over to pick up the phone from the ground, coincidentally offering Sherlock an excellent view of his muscular arse. "Here you are," John said, straightening back up and turning around to offer the phone to Sherlock with an apologetic grimace. 

Sherlock took it and growled in displeasure. The screen was shattered; even worse, some sort of liquid had seeped through the glass substrate, utterly frying the electronics within. If he was lucky, his MicroSIM would be undamaged. If not, then Jim from IT could probably work one of his miracles. For a price. In the meantime… "Can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," Sherlock said, giving John a rueful smile.

"Of course, here." John pulled it out from his pocket and passed it over with a smile.

Sherlock took it, making sure to lightly brush John's fingers with his own. _Nokia, N97 Smartphone_ , Sherlock noted absently as he turned it over, studiously ignoring the faint tingles that John's touch had left behind. _Internet and Bluetooth enabled. Expensive when new, but a bit outdated now…_ Sherlock turned it over, noting the engraved text on the back: 'Harry Watson, from Clara XXX'. _Ah. A regift. Sentiment and money problems, then. Consistent with Donovan's speculations about the state of his finances_. Turning it rightside up, Sherlock punched in Molly's mobile number from memory. It rang for several moments before Molly picked up.

"Hello?"

"Molly, it's Billy. How close are you to being done?"

"Er, well, we're about to go attend a horse necropsy," came Molly's voice, tinny over the phone. Her tone carried an undercurrent of worry. "This isn't your number. Is something wrong?"

"I'm afraid I've…had a bit of an accident. No, no…nothing that bad. I just slipped and hurt my wrist…and broke my phone. No, I can wait. If the pain gets too bad, I'll just call a cab." Sherlock made a subtle show of awkwardly pulling out his wallet and checking the bills folded within. Three tenners, a score and a handful of single notes. Except they were American currency, not pounds, so three tens, a twenty dollar bill and five ones, not counting the two fifty dollar bills he had tucked into the sole of his left sock. Plenty to hire a cab if his ploy didn't work. Assuming one would even take him. "I think I have enough to get to a clinic and back—" 

John was watching him with a furrowed brow, clearly listening. At Sherlock's off-hand mention of hiring a taxi, John's expression changed. "Wait, what? Don't you have a vehicle?" John interrupted, his voice concerned. 

"Just a moment, Molly. Nope," Sherlock said, turning to address John. "I don't, but it's fine. Molly's in class right now but said she'll be here at five and she can give me a ride if none of the cabs will take me." Sherlock deliberately uttered last few words with a tone of patient long-suffering.

As he expected, John reacted to the information by glancing down at the heavy-duty, military grade watch he wore on his left wrist with a worried expression as he noted the time. John shook his head once, his chin jerking sidewise in negation. "What? No. Just no," John said, his tone firm, brooking no argument. "Three hours is way too long to go ignoring a potentially busted wrist. You said Molly? As in Molly Hooper, employee of Candii Ross?"

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, feigning confusion. "Do you know her?"

"I do. Give me my phone. She'll vouch for me." John reached out and plucked his mobile from Sherlock's unresisting grip. He tucked it between his ear and shoulder, leaving his hands free. "Hello Molly? Yes, it's John, John Watson. Listen, don't worry about missing class; I can take Billy to a doctor." John chuckled. "Sure did. Ass over teakettle…yeah, I figured…Um, not sure. Possible wrist fracture. He landed pretty hard, but I'm a vet, not a doctor, so I'd rather he get it checked out by a pro—Oh, I was thinking Mike. Course I don't mind." He laughed again. "Will do. I'll drop him off when we're done. Okay, bye." John hung up, but rather than putting his phone away, he dialed another number. "Gotta let somebody know where I'm going," John explained in response to Sherlock's silent look of confusion. "Hey Sholto? It's John. Listen, we had a slip-and-fall in Barn 3. I'm going to run the guy over to Urgent Care; I should be back in a few hours at most…Will do. All right, that's sorted then," John said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "Are you ready? Come on." 

John chivvied Sherlock gently out of the barn and into the crowd outside, dodging bodies with the ease of long experience, as he led him towards the back of the fairgrounds. 

"Are all of you Texans so obliging to strangers in need?" Sherlock asked as he followed John through the crowd.

John snorted, skirting to avoid a man and an oversized stroller containing a whining toddler. "I'm not a native Texan, but yes, generally we're pretty friendly folk. It's you damn Yankees with your big cities and cold weather that have this preconception that we're liable to shoot strangers first and ask questions later."

"How did you know I'm a 'damn Yankee'?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Your accent," John replied bluntly. "Your constants are a bit too clipped, despite that lilt you have. Also, around here, it's 'y'all', not 'all of you'."

Sherlock surprised himself by bursting into a snort of laughter. "So where are you from originally, if you're not a native Texan?"

"Oh, a couple different states," John answered vaguely. "Oklahoma, Ohio, Virginia…we moved a lot, so I can't really say I'm from any one place." He led them through the car park before stopping in front of a battered black Humvee parked near the chain-link fence at the back. "This is mine," John said unnecessarily. 

He unlocked the passenger side door and gestured for Sherlock to have a seat, which Sherlock did, gratefully. The upholstery was hot against his back and legs, a welcome contrast to his cold, clammy shirt. It felt good to be off of his feet again. His boots still rubbed parts of his feet unpleasantly, despite the protective plasters and extra-thick socks he wore. John, meanwhile, occupied himself by unbuckling his chaps and sliding them down his legs; it was an activity that afforded Sherlock another excellent view of his arse. Sherlock blinked, thrown by the unexpected observation from his subconscious. 

"I'll overheat otherwise," John explained casually, misinterpreting Sherlock's faint frown of concentration as he straightened up. He tossed the worn leather garment into the back of his Humvee, the chaps making a soft 'thwap' as they landed and sending up a faint cloud of dust. "It's a bit of a drive, and my AC doesn't work that great. How's the wrist?" John asked as he straightened back up.

"It hurts," Sherlock admitted, schooling his face to something subtly pitiful and adding the very faintest wobble to his voice, feigning more pain than he was actually in.

"Any numbness or tingling?"

"No. Just throbbing."

John pursed his lips, lost in thought, before walking around to the back of the Humvee and opening the tailgate. He spent a several seconds rummaging through one of the well-stocked medical kits he kept in the shell before standing up with a huff of satisfaction. He closed the tailgate with a bang and then walked around to Sherlock's side of the truck. "Here," John said, twisting the instant cold-pack he'd fetched to activate it. "Oh, wait." John leaned forward and fished a clean bandana out of his glove compartment. He used to to wrap the cold-pack in a protective layer before proffering the entire bundle to Sherlock. "Rest your wrist on this for a bit, yeah? It'll help with the swelling. I'm sorry, but I really don't want to give you anything for the pain until Mike sees you."

"No. I understand. Thank you," Sherlock murmured, accepting the cold-pack and gingerly placing his injured wrist on top. He shivered at the contrast.

"You're welcome." John slid into the driver's seat and pulled the shoulder harness across his chest. "Do you…" he gestured ineffectively, "need help with your belt?" At Sherlock's nod, John braced himself against the seat and leaned over to grab the shoulder harness. Sherlock could feel the warmth of John's body; the vet radiated heat like a personal furnace. Up close, John smelled even better. Sherlock took a covert sniff, enjoying John's scent of clean sweat, spice and sun-warmed cotton.

"There," John said, clicking the latch and giving the belt a quick tug to double-check it was fastened securely. "Is that too tight?" At the negative headshake, John started up his truck and began to back out of his parking spot. "Right then," he muttered. "Let's get you into town, then." 

"Are you between deployments or reserve?" Sherlock asked, partially out of curiosity, partly to distract himself from the throbbing bursts of pain in his wrist caused by the vehicle's jostling over the bumpy pavement.

"Honorably discharged, actually." John replied absently. He paused to let a cattle trailer pass by in front of him. "I served two tours, one in Afghanistan, and one in Liberia, before deciding I wanted to do something different. Dogs are good and all, but I prefer working with large animals." John blinked, brow furrowed, his brain catching up with his mouth. He turned his head enough that he could glance at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, his expression somewhere between puzzled and wary. "How did you know I was in the military?"

"Your transport and license plate frame, mostly," Sherlock explained. "Though the single dog tag on your key-ring and the BDU jacket stuffed underneath the seat in the back also gave you away."

John shot him another look, his expression shifting from wary to intrigued, rather than annoyed. "Go on then," John challenged, "walk me through it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Your vehicle, it's a Military-style High Mobility Multi-Purpose Wheeled Vehicle, or 'Humvee.' Surplus and repainted obviously, but certainly an unusual choice in a population that generally prefers pickup trucks. The license plate frame reads 'To Conserve Fighting Strength' which is the motto of the United States Army Medical Corps. You've already introduced yourself as a vet. That knowledge, combined with the evidence strongly indicates that you received your veterinary degree through the United States Army, and served accordingly."

John froze, his mouth opening and closing several times, before he shook his head slowly. "That…was amazing."

Sherlock blinked in surprise; John's reaction was unexpected. He turned to give the vet a puzzled look. "Do you think so?"

"What? Of course I do."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock observed aloud, an involuntary flush rising in his cheeks. 

"Oh?" John queried, turning down a paved street. "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock admitted.

John giggled, a high, boyish sound of amusement. "Rude bastards, then." He shot Sherlock another admiring glance. "How do you do all that, anyway?"

"I told you, I'm an equine rehabilitation expert. I study body language and minute tells for a living." Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his uninjured hand. "With horses, it's the difference between me getting injured or potentially killed, or me saving an animal's life. Humans are marginally safer to deduce—generally the worst they'll do is punch you—and they make an interesting practice case. I've had years of practice."

"Equine rehabilitation expert, and you know Molly Hooper," John said slowly, clearly thinking as he steered his truck around a medium-sized pothole. "Did Candii Ross hire you to work with that murderous stallion of hers?"

"Devil's Blaze? Why yes, she did. How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head in a deliberate bid to encourage John to talk.

John shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "He was one of my patients."

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, infusing his tone with admiration. "You're the John Watson who Ms. Ross spoke so highly of."

Now it was John's turn to look puzzled. "She did?"

"She did. Well, not in so many words, but she mentioned that you were the only reason that her horse hadn't been summarily executed by the police and that she was glad a competent vet had been on hand that night. Based on my own impression of Candii Ross, I interpret that as high praise." 

John licked his lips, sniffed and scrunched his nose, his expressive features mirroring his internal thought processes. "That's nice of her, though I don't know if it's warranted considering I didn't do much. Doctor Sawyer was the one who treated most of the Devil's injuries. I mostly ran tests and looked for underlying causes…for all the good that did." 

_Interesting_. No mention of his conflict with Doctor Sterndale, no mention of him being hired by Ms. Ross as Doctor Sterndale's replacement. He'd have to ask then. "What about Ms. Ross's other vet, Doctor Sterndale? What are your impressions of him?" 

"Doctor Sterndale is an excellent vet," John replied slowly, clearly reluctant to speak ill of a colleague. "The innovations he's made in the field for treating equine and bovine sport-caused injuries are amazing. He's one of the best vets for sports injuries on the circuit. I have a lot of respect for his skills." 

"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's carefully neutral response. "The gossip on the ranch is that you almost punched him in the face, the last time the two of you met."

"No, that's an exaggeration," John corrected immediately. "I didn't punch him. We just had a professional difference of opinion."

"Yes…Ms. Ross mentioned that. Something about rabies?"

"Yeah, which is quite strange, really. None of the symptoms matched…but I guess even the best medical professionals can make mistakes?" The infliction of John's voice indicated that he was having trouble believing his own argument.

"Interesting."

"Yep." 

Sherlock opened his mouth, preparing to start another line of inquiry, but stopped as they turned into a small car park surrounding a medium-sized, freestanding building built out of cinderblocks that had been painted a light tan. A few scraggly-looking flowerbeds filled with native shrubs and ornamental rocks adorned the front. Three bilingual English and Spanish signs, each one mounted to an exterior wall above the building's doors and windows, identified the business as a medical clinic. 

Sherlock eyed the somewhat run-down building suspiciously. "This is your urgent care center?"

"I know it doesn't look like much on the outside," John admitted, "but don't let that fool you. Most of the equipment inside is state-of-the-art. Mike's an old friend of mine and he comes from money. We met in in the Helmand province back when I was deployed and he was working with Doctors Without Borders. When he got back to the States, Mike decided to do something about appalling state of our country's healthcare system for the poor by opening up his own independent clinic. He and his wife both know how to network. Grants and donations help offset the operating costs and the savings get passed along to the patients. Mike could have easily gotten a cushy job in some big hospital somewhere, if he'd wanted to, but he wanted to do more." 

"A philanthropist, then?"

"More like a God-damned guardian angel," John corrected him. "Come on," he ordered, pulling open the clinic's door, and ushering Sherlock on through first. "Let's get you fixed up."

The inside of the clinic was clean, with freshly painted, dove-gray walls. The sharp smells of disinfectant and paint offset the building's somewhat shabby exterior appearance, but the furniture was rather mismatched and clearly government or business surplus. Approximately twenty-five armless plastic chairs sat in rows of five in the center of the room, their seats taken up by an assortment of men, women, children and at least one young woman Sherlock could identify as transgender. Another half-dozen, classroom chairs were arranged around the room's perimeter, their built-in desks offering a writing surface for patients to fill out paperwork. A single loveseat, upholstered in some sort of horrible gold fabric with avocado green undertones and disturbingly-oversized flowers was tucked underneath the window. A small, oval coffee table in front held a fanned-out assortment of magazines about different topics: housekeeping, parenting, astronomy, medicine, fitness, hunting and fashion. A thankfully-muted television stood in one corner featuring the antics of several armed, green, physics-defying, mask-wearing, anthropomorphic terrapins. Spanish subtitles ran along the bottom of the screen, replete with trite dialogue such as 'WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!'

"Come on," John ordered, leading them past the room's waiting patients to the L-shaped reception desk standing at the front of the room, next to a door that almost certainly led to the clinic's treatment rooms. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, privately bemused by the visible incongruity. The cubicle's dark brown, faux-wood melamine surface was marked by dings and scratches. Clearly another surplus purchase. The office equipment however, was new and top of the line. A compact, multi-function HP color laserjet printer, a Toshiba Tecra Z40 healthcare laptop and two 19" LED-Backlit, LCD monitors sat on top. A young man, clad in a set of clean, dark blue scrubs sat behind the desk. He had dark black hair, vaguely Korean features and was staring intently at a computer screen. Lines of text were reflected in his glasses, so reading, rather than playing games. At the sound of John and Sherlock's approach, he looked up and smiled, revealing a small gap between his two front teeth. 

"Buenas tardes, gentlemen, How can I help you?"

"Wrist injury," Sherlock answered shortly. "I need a doctor."

"Ah," the receptionist made a sympathetic face. "Have you been seen here before?"

"Nope."

"Well then," the receptionist opened a drawer and pulled out a clipboard which he laid on the cubicles counter. "If you could start by filling out that new patient intake sheet for us, we'll get you taken care of. Do you have insurance?"

Sherlock's mind flashed to the contents of his wallet: UK license, British NHS card, and his European Health Insurance card. The answer to the receptionist' question was yes, naturally, but revealing them would destroy his cover, plus there was the fact that neither insurance card would be recognized by the US. Instead he shook his head. "Yes and no. I mean, I have a plan, but it covers catastrophic injuries only, and my deductible is high. I'd rather just pay out-of-pocket."

"Not a problem," the young man told him cheerfully. "You aren't the only person that does that. Once you're done with that sheet, bring it up here and I'll get you back to see Doctor Stamford." 

"Thank you," John said, speaking for them both. He shot Sherlock a quick glance for permission, before reaching out and picking up the intake form. "Where do you want to sit?"

Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder, dispassionately surveying the rows of chairs and immediately dismissing them. The school desks were also out. All of them had the table on the right, an unworkable position for a sinister-handed, or left-handed individual. With a grimace, he opted to seat himself on one end of the loveseat. It was surprisingly comfortable, despite its hideous appearance. 

After a brief hesitation, John sat down on the other end, canting his body slightly so he was facing Sherlock, rather than the front of the room. He made to hand the clipboard to Sherlock, but Sherlock shook his head. 

"Can you write my answers down for me?" Sherlock held up his injured hand by way of explanation. A lie, of course. He was perfectly capable of writing with his left hand—Mycroft had seen to that—but feigning helplessness and asking John to do it fed into the vet's hero complex and helped foster a sense of intimacy and trust. 

"Right, um, yeah." John coughed and cleared his throat, his embarrassment clear as he tipped his head to one side. "I guess it would be a bit of challenge to write with an injured wrist, wouldn't it?" John shifted again, crossing his left leg over his right so he could use it as a table, before laying the clipboard across it at an angle. He ignored the provided biro and instead reached into his front shirt pocket to pull out a silver pen, which he uncapped with a flourish.

"What type of pen is that?" Sherlock demanded.

"This? It's a Fisher Space pen; a southpaw's best friend for writing."

"Why?"

John blinked, looking bemused at Sherlock's questions. "Most pens are designed for right-handed people. In the case of this ballpoint—" John tapped at the biro, "—ink flows out as it's dragged across the page. But when I write, I push the pen, rather than pull, which means it dries up after a few sentences. The space pens, though, they have a pressurized ink cartridge, so it doesn't matter if I'm writing left-to-right, or even upside down, the ink will still flow."

"Fascinating."

John shrugged. "I wouldn't go that far, but it is a useful piece of technology. So…full name?"

"William 'Billy' Scott," Sherlock replied, observing with interest that John was an overwriter. He didn't contort his hand into the hooked writing position common among left-handed individuals. Instead, he held the pen approximately an inch away from the nib and his wrist was straight, resulting in legible, unsmudged letters. Clearly somebody had cared enough to teach him the proper way to hold his pen… 

"Birthdate?"

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked, coming back to himself.

"When's your birthday?"

"Oh. January 6th, 1981."

John gave him a sideways look, one eyebrow rising mischievously. "Epiphany then?" 

"Only if you're an observant member of either a Western or Eastern Christian church."

"Right," John said, making a quick note on the paper. "Nevermind. Age?"

"Oh do the math!"

"Fine," John mumbled, scrunching up his nose. "I was born in '79, and I'm thirty-one…" doing the mental subtraction before scrawling down a number. Sherlock leaned forward, double-checking John's answer, only to garner an annoyed look from John who tapped his pen against the paper pointedly. "I do know basic arithmetic. Address?"

"Triple C Ranch, Cabin F, 18940 East State Highway 221, Canyon Texas."

"Phone number?"

Sherlock rattled it off, only to get a puzzled look from John. "What?"

"That's not a Texas area code."

"I'm not from Texas," Sherlock explained. "I'm only here for a few months because Candii Ross hired me to work with Devil's Blaze. When I'm done, I'll go back home."

"Oh." John's face fell briefly. "Where do you normally live?"

"On a ranch in Montana."

"Ah, that explains it then," John said. "Do you…think you'll be here long?"

"It depends on Devil's Blaze." 

"Right," John said, visibly forcing himself to refocus on the paperwork he was supposed to be filling out. "Erm…any known drug allergies?"

"No," Sherlock informed him curtly, then deciding a bit more honesty was called for. "I prefer not to take opioids, especially morphine…I have a bad reaction to them," Sherlock explained, cloaking his history of prescription drug abuse in suitably vague terms. Best not to mention the cocaine.

"Reason for appointment today is obvious," John muttered, more to himself, than to Sherlock as he wrote down Sherlock's list of symptoms. "Swollen wrist after striking it against the floor…pain when moving…Okay…I think that's everything." John finished writing, capped the pen and handed the clipboard to Sherlock who skimmed it briefly before accuracy, before taking it back to the receptionist, who accepted it was a friendly smile.

"Thank you, sir. Do you have a photo ID?"

"I do." Pulling out his license was awkward, but Sherlock managed and passed the plastic card over. 

The receptionist took it, briefly checking the name against what John Watson had transcribed, not even batting an eye at the UK license. Clearly adherence to patient privacy was deeply ingrained. "Is the name on the form the you prefer to use?"

"It is. Problem?"

The receptionist shook his head. "Not at all; double last names are pretty common here, especially among Hispanic Americans. Just have a seat, Mr. Scott, and I'll let Doctor Stamford know you're ready."

"Fine." Sherlock strode back to where John was waiting and resumed his seat with a huff. John was slowly typing out a message on his phone, his mouth set in a moue of concentration. With a sigh, Sherlock reached out, picked up the astronomy magazine and began flipping through it, hoping to stave off boredom. He was about halfway through an article on the obliquity of the ecliptic when the sound of a throat clearing caused him to look up and meet John's gaze.

"So…do you read a lot, then?" John asked, nodding his head at the magazine spread out over Sherlock's lap. 

"I do."

"Thought so," John told him. "You seem awfully damn smart."

Sherlock flushed at the unexpected compliment. "Er…thank you?"

"You're welcome," John replied with a grin. He seemed about to say something else, but his phone rang, the first few bars of what Sherlock recognized as the 'William Tell Overture' sounding surprisingly loud in the quiet room. Several people turned to look at them, their expressions ranging from amused to annoyed. John flushed and excused himself, hurrying outside to take the call. 

Through the glass of the clinic's door, Sherlock could see him pacing back and forth, occasionally shaking his head as he spoke with whoever was on the other end of the line. Annoyingly enough, he couldn't read John's lips through the tinted glass, but the way John periodically scrubbed a frustrated hand through his hair and looked skyward made it clear he was arguing with somebody. After a few minutes, Sherlock gave up and returned his attention to the magazine in his lap, periodically glancing up when a nurse opened the door to call the next patient back. 

The room was almost empty by the time John shuffled back in, his expression tense and unhappy. His shoulders were hunched inward and he was flexing and curling his left hand.

"All right?" Sherlock asked, looking up from an article about Alan Turing's legacy. 

"Fine. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

John blinked several times, his thin lips tightening into a grimace before he shook his head. "It's nothing…just my sister being difficult. As usual."

"Older or younger?" Sherlock asked, despite already knowing the answer.

"Older."

"Hmmmm…," Sherlock replied, pretending to focus his attention on the magazine in order to put John at ease by giving him a sense of privacy. He turned the page and gave the magazine a decided snap. "I have an older brother…he aggravates me constantly."

John gave him a half-hearted smile. "The perils of being the younger sibling then, yes?"

"Indeed."

They settled into a companionable silence, the room continuing to empty slowly around them. Sherlock casually flipped through pages as he read, occasionally stealing glances at John Watson from the corner of his eye. Apparently Sally Donovan hadn't been exaggerating about the tension between the Watson siblings. John, meanwhile, kept staring down at his phone like he was expecting it to either ring or explode. Furrowed lines creased his forehead, making him appear far older than his thirty-one years.

Eventually, the door to the back offices opened. A heavy-set man wearing a white laboratory coat and a brightly striped red, green and gold tie stepped out, a handful of manilla folders tucked underneath his right arm. "Matthew," he said, addressing the receptionist. "Could you please make copies of these?"

"Of course, Doctor Stamford."

"We have three rooms free. How many more patients do we have?" The doctor leaned over to peer at the receptionist's clipboard.

"Just the one." The receptionist pointed to where John and Sherlock were waiting.

The doctor straightened up, removing his glasses to polish them briefly on his shirt before sliding them back on. His expression of tolerant goodwill morphed into an expression of surprised pleasure. "John! John Watson! I didn't know you were back in town!"

"Yes, Mike, hello." John pushed himself to his feet and strode forward to shake the other man's hand. 

"How long are you back for this time?"

"Oh, couple of months, at least. I've got a new client that's going to keep me busy for the time being. It's nice. I'll be working more with horses…and the extra income will help out a lot."

"Glad to hear it. How's Harry? Doing any better?"

John laughed softly, a surprisingly bitter sound, shaking his head in a quick, sharp jerk. He sniffed once, then swallowed hard, his chin rising defiantly. "She's about the same, well, she's single again and back to being unemployed. Same reason as always."

"Any chance of her finally getting treatment?"

"Yeah, like that's going to happen," John huffed sarcastically. 

"Ah. Shame, that." Mike looked genuinely sympathetic. He opened his mouth, clearly about to ask another question, but something in John's expression made him clear his throat and change the topic. "So…what brings you here today? You haven't injured yourself again, I hope? No getting struck by lightning, tripping over a dik-dik, bitten by an angry ibex, accidentally getting sprayed by birdshot, or getting stung after sitting on a scorpion?"

"We've been friends for way too long, if you remember all that, Mike," John chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. "No, nothing like that today. I'm fine. But I do have a patient for you." John turned halfway around to see Sherlock already standing beside him, "Billy, I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Mike Stamford. Mike, meet Billy Scott."

"Pleasure, Mr. Scott," Mike said, giving Sherlock's left hand a firm shake. 

"Billy, please," Sherlock corrected with an easy smile, returning Mike's handshake with a friendly squeeze. 

"Billy then. Come on back; we'll get you taken care of." Mike paused long enough to pick up the manilla folder John had filled out from the receptionist's desk, before ushering John and Sherlock through the door and down a short hallway.

"So," Mike began, pushing open the door into an empty exam room and waving them through before shutting the door with a firm click. "Are you an uninsured ranch hand or tough-as-nails Bronc rider?" Sherlock looked nonplussed and Mike hastened to explain. "I've known John for a long time, and we have an agreement. He encourages injured rodeo folks to seek proper medical care, instead of toughing it out, and I don't charge them an arm and a leg if they're uninsured."

"Neither, actually; I'm a horse trainer. I will be paying out of pocket today, though."

"One of those plans, eh?" Mike said, giving him a smile. "Not to worry, we'll get you sorted." He opened the file and pulled out the intake sheet John had filled, squinting a bit at John's handwriting before shaking his head in exasperation. "Dagnabbit, John," he groused. "It's bad enough trying to read my own handwriting without trying to decipher yours. Spare my eyes and tell me what happened?" 

"I slipped—"Sherlock began, just as John answered, "he fell". At the stumble, John flushed and fell silent, apologetically gesturing for Sherlock to continue. Mike, meanwhile, looked at the two of them, his round, affable face creasing in a bemused smile.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "You might as well keep talking, John. You saw it…I didn't."

John cleared his throat, glancing sideways at Sherlock. At Sherlock's nod of confirmation, John shrugged. "Er, well, Billy took a tumble in one of the fairground cattle barns earlier. He tried to catch himself with his hand, rather than taking the fall, and ended up hurting his wrist. I'm not sure if it's broken or just sprained; it's definitely swollen. Oh, he also hit his head." John slid his gaze to Sherlock, obviously waiting to see if the other man would add anything else. When Sherlock remained silent, John shrugged. "That's…really about it," John told Mike. "I checked Billy's pupils, and it didn't look like he gave himself a concussion, but you're the doctor, not me." Standing up, John gave Sherlock a clap on the shoulder. "And on that note, I'll get out of here so you can have some privacy. I'll be in the waiting room when you're ready to go."

"No, it's fine," Sherlock heard himself saying. "I don't mind. You can keep me company."

John blinked, clearly surprised. He cocked an eyebrow at Mike, seeking silent permission, and received a bemused nod in return.

"Well then," Mike began, a smile hovering around his lips, "we'll need an X-ray first. My machine's digital so I don't have to worry about the price or time involved in traditional films. Billy, if you'd care to follow me?"

They returned about ten minutes later. "No fractures," Mike reported cheerfully. "Just a Grade 1 sprain, which means stretched ligaments, but nothing torn. We'll splint it for a week to protect the ligaments; give them a chance to heal. John? Can you go get me a forearm splint and an elastic bandage? Drawers number 5 and 21 in the supply room?"

"On it," John replied, hurrying out to fetch the requested items. 

"In the meantime," Mike continued, turning to address Sherlock, "go ahead and have a seat on the bed so I can finish checking your skull." Mike's touch was deft and professional but Sherlock still flinched. He found himself wishing that it was John's fingers parting his hair and gently palpating his scalp. The vet's touch on his wrist and arm had been surprisingly…pleasurable, despite the pain. Illogical. John Watson was a suspect. Obviously his head injury was interfering with his judgment. 

"No concussion," Mike announced a few moments later, flicking off the flashlight he'd used to check Sherlock's pupils and turning away to deposit his exam gloves in the trash. "Though I'd recommend keeping an ice pack on that bump on your head," Mike continued. There was a knock at the door. "Come in!"

"Here you go, Mike." John offered the supplies he'd fetched to Mike, who waved them away. 

"Go ahead, John. You know how to splint a wrist just as well as I do. That is, of course, if know how to handle a patient that isn't actively kicking or biting you?" The last comment was said in a gently teasing tone. 

John simply huffed and rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk Mike…I've seen you giving toddlers getting their vaccinations. You okay with this?" John asked, walking over to where Sherlock was waiting. He held up his hands, showing Sherlock the wrappings he carried. 

"I'm fine. Let's get on with it." Following John's instructions, Sherlock relaxed his arm and laid in the split John held out, allowing John to support its weight. John's hands were warm against his own, naturally cool skin, comforting the same way a hot cup of coffee or Mrs. Hudson's kitchen was on a cold day. Oblivious to Sherlock's musings, John laid the elastic bandage across the back of Sherlock's wrist, using his right thumb to pin it in place as he began wrapping the bandage around Sherlock's arm. He made sure to stretch it slightly so it would contract, occasionally pausing to smooth out almost imperceptible wrinkles. It wasn't sexual—John's expression was far too professional and the environment was all wrong—but it was disconcerting nonetheless, Sherlock decided with a grimace.

"Is that too tight?" John asked, glancing up and seeing Sherlock's expression. 

"No, it's fine." Sherlock replied, jerking his head sideways in an attempting to realign his focus. He carefully extended his fingers, then forming a fist. His arm twinged with the movement, but the pain was a dull throb in contrast to the stabbing ache of earlier. 

"How long am I expected to wear this?" Sherlock demanded, turning to where Mike was still watching them, a knowing smirk creasing his features. He held up his immobilized forearm for emphasis. "I'm in the process of working with a dangerous equine. I need full use of both hands."

"That depends on how closely you follow my instructions," Mike replied affably, utterly unperturbed by the glower Sherlock shot him. "With a Grade 1 sprain, you're looking at something between two and six weeks of healing time—assuming you follow my instructions to take it easy and don't reinjure it by doing something foolish. Do you know the RICE protocol? Rest, ice, compression, elevation?"

"Yes."

"Good. Follow it. That means no lifting, pulling, or carrying anything heavy with your right arm for the next four weeks, and especially no strenuous or repetitive activity with your right hand for the next forty-eight hours." To Sherlock's private, horrified embarrassment, there was a faint, but unmistakable twinkle in Mike's eye. Behind him, John Watson made a muffled, choking sound. "Ice your wrist for twenty minutes every hour for the rest of the evening," Mike continued cheerfully, ignoring the glare John sent him, "and wear the splint for a week—though you can take it off to shower—and as much as possible, keep your wrist elevated. Next Saturday, you can switch to just the elastic bandage for support and wear that for another full week. I recommend purchasing yourself either a brace, or taping your wrist for protection for the next three to six months since you're working with horses. I'm also going to give you a printout of some gentle stretches I want you to start doing once you get the bandages off." 

"Fine."

"You indicated you aren't allergic to NSAIDs, is that accurate?"

"Yes."

"Good." Mike opened an upper cabinet door and pulled out an extra large bottle of generic Ibuprofen. He shook out four pills and which he handed to Sherlock, along with a paper cup of water. "800 milligrams every six hours for the first 24 hours, and then 400 milligrams every 4-6 hours as needed. Don't take more than that. It can damage your stomach or intestines. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good." Mike reached into one of the oversized pockets of his lab coat and pulled out a small pad of paper. He scribbled on it, the sound of carbon-copy paper crinkling loudly in the room before ripping off the top sheet and passing it over to Sherlock, along with the promised printout. "There. Bill, stretches and follow-up instructions. You're all set. Any questions?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll let you gentlemen get out of here. Be sure to check out with Kate before you go. John? Interested in grabbing a coffee at the Criterion, Wednesday night? I'll have an hour free while the girls are in their dance class."

"Sounds good, Mike. I'll text you." With a wave, John ushered Sherlock out the door and down the hall, before halting in front of miniscule office were a pretty redhead was typing busily away. "Hey Kate."

The woman held up an index finger in a wordless 'wait a moment' demand as she she typed, her lips silently moving in what Sherlock easily read as a scathing litany against somebody named 'Barry or 'Perry'.

"John," Sherlock whispered, purposely leaning close so that his warm breath would brush against John's ear. "What does 'faecal encephalopathy' mean?"

"It's doctor's slang for 'shit for brains,'" John whispered back, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Ah," Sherlock murmured, leaning closer, not missing the way John's pulse increased in response to his proximity. "And 'cranial rectosis'?"

"The person's head is stuck up their ass." 

"Is that even anatomically possible without decapitation being involved?" Sherlock asked, his tone one of dry scientific curiosity. John glanced sideways to meet Sherlock's eyes, his expression puzzled. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. John's mouth twitched and a moment later the two of them were laughing, Sherlock's deeper baritone contrasting with John's boyish snickers.

"If you're discussing decapitation, I have a few candidates I'd volunteer," Kate chimed in, still typing. 

"Are you writing to politicians again, Kate? Mike's wife is never happier than when she has somebody she can eviscerate for being an idiot," John explained the aside to Sherlock, his blue eyes still sparkling in amusement. 

"Right you are, John. And some people make it _so_ easy. Remind me, what's the veterinary term for a male horse with two undescended testicles?"

"A bilateral cryptorchid," Sherlock answered before John could, earning himself an impressed look from the veterinarian.

"Oh, thank you dear." Kate's fingers moved in a last flurry of rapid typing before she moved the mouse and clicked to save the document. "I'll let that sit for a bit. You ready to check out?" 

"Yes."

"Name?"

"Billy Scott."

Kate nodded, drawing a line through Sherlock's alias on the clipboard beside her. She held her hand out for the piece of paper Mike had scribbled on and Sherlock passed it over. Kate took it, studied it for a moment and then pulled her calculator over, typing rapidly with her left hand, clearly adding individual charges up. "All right. That'll be fifty even, Mr. Scott."

"John, can you pass me my wallet?"

"Errrr…where is it?"

"Right rear pocket."

John pursed his lips, then reached over to pull Sherlock's billfold free, his movements perfunctory, rather than lingering. Clearly embarrassed. Too soon then. Sherlock took it with a grateful smile and handed the money over, being careful to obscure his license from John.

"Thank you." Kate took the bills and placed them in a simple cash box, before handing Sherlock a business card and a receipt. "There you go, Mr. Scott. Don't forget to call if you have any questions, or come back in if your wrist starts to hurt worse."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, copying John's courtious tip of his Stetson and following him outside.

The sun was setting, turning the turning the sky's sparse clouds different shades of amethyst, gold and blue. 

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked as he followed John across the car park, pretending he hadn't noticed the clock on the wall. 

John glanced down and checked his watch. "Almost six." 

"Molly should be back at the fairgrounds by now."

"Ah yes," John replied, his disappointment evident. "We'd better go." Wordlessly, he unlocked Sherlock's door, before climbing in and starting the ignition. 

Sherlock was silent during the drive back, his attention focused on analyzing John Watson's body language and the personal details he'd let slip. Detective Donovan's suspicions about John Watson definitely had some merit, especially the financially-based motivation. He hadn't missed the casual mention of the increase in his income, though John hadn't mentioned his new client by name. Patient confidentiality, or something more sinister? The vet was also clearly unhappy with his sister; the bitter way he'd mentioned her divorce and unemployed status to Mike Stamford were clear indicators that she was dependant on her brother financially. The question was whether or not John Watson had the means or sheer ruthlessness necessary to deliberately poison an animal for financial gain. Somehow he'd have to gain access to John's laptop to be certain.

John was also quiet, clearly lost in his own thoughts, though Sherlock noticed him occasionally glancing sideways at his passenger, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips in an unexpectedly endearing nervous gesture.

"There's Molly's truck," Sherlock observed aloud, spotting the battered white vehicle as they pulled into the mostly empty parking lot. Molly had parked up front, near the buildings, though she wasn't sitting inside the cab. 

John nodded, bringing his own truck to a halt a few places away. _Courteous habit_? Sherlock idly wondered, designed not to accidently ding another vehicle with a door, or was it for a more practical reason? Such as making sure he could easily load and unload items from his vehicle? John nervously cleared his throat, interrupting Sherlock's private musings. 

"Hey, um…do you ever get any free time?"

Sherlock laughed softly, making sure to sweep his eyelashes down in an unmistakably flirtatious gesture. "Oh yeah. Lots."

"Um…good. That's good." John's tongue flicked out, wetting his lips. "I was wondering, if maybe you'd like—" John's phone rang, abruptly interrupting whatever John intended to ask. "Sorry," the vet said with an apologetic grimace as he glanced down at the number. "I need to get that. Hello? Oh Jesus. They what? Shit. I'll be right there." John stuffed his phone back into his pocket and fumbled with his seatbelt, swearing once more before the latch finally gave, allowing him to slide out of his seat. Taking his cue, Sherlock also exited the truck, watching silently as John jerked the rear door of his truck open to grab a rugged red plastic toolbox out of the back. A man came running up, his distinctive red hat clearly visible, despite the dusky twilight. Sherlock blinked and frowned, trying to place where he'd seen the hat before clearing as he recognized the rodeo clown from earlier, the one that had risked getting badly injured to rescue a frightened gelding from an idiot small dog.

"Doc Watson," the rodeo clown panted, skidding to a halt, his boots sending up a cloud of dust. He pushed his hat back to reveal a weather-lined face. "Thank God you're here. We need you in there bad. Sholto sent me to help you carry stuff."

"Thanks, Fizzy." John shoved the first toolbox into the man's arms and grabbed another two for himself. "What in the hell happened?" 

"Don't know," the man snapped, turning his head and spitting out a short stream of tobacco juice. "I didn't see it. I just heard it." He had an extremely nasally voice, Sherlock noticed with interest, and an accent that identified him as originally from someplace other than the southern United States. "I was working on my barrel, hammering out the dents for the next gig, just minding my own business," the clown explained. "Next thing I knew, there was an almighty crash as all hell broke loose. Somebody started screaming that the steers were fighting and to go get the vets. It looks like one might have broken his neck, and another's been gored pretty bad. Sholto's inside, and a couple other guys have been called. We need to move," the clown snapped, jerking his head in the direction of one of the barns. Faintly, on the breeze, Sherlock could hear the sounds of men shouting and the bellows of frightened and angry cattle.

"Jesus Christ. Fuck." John swore again. "Billy? Sorry. I've got to go." John slammed the door shut and took off running, the rodeo clown easily keeping up, despite the weight of the tool box he was carrying.

"What was all that about?" Molly asked, striding up, a paper sack clutched in her hand.

"I don't know," Sherlock said absently, watching John's retreating form with something close to awe. The vet's stride was fluid, despite his short legs, and Sherlock could see the muscles in his arse and legs flexing as he ran. "I think it was something about a steer fight?"

"Oh. Well, that sounds scary," Molly said soothingly, giving Sherlock a reassuring smile, "but it's probably nothing. It's not exactly uncommon when you have a bunch of cattle penned up together. At least, that's what Socorro and Cole have told me." She unlocked her truck so Sherlock could climb in and set her bag down in the middle of the bench. "How's your wrist?" 

"It's fine," Sherlock said dismissively, shutting the door and turning to look over his shoulder through the back windshield with a pang of regret. John and the clown were gone, vanished into one of the innumerable buildings. 

"—could get coffee some other night?"

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked, belatedly realizing that Molly was still talking. 

Molly pressed her lips together as she gave Sherlock an annoyed look. "I said, if you wanted to, we get coffee some other night? I wasn't sure if you'd still be up for it, what with your wrist and all."

"No. I'm looking forward to it," Sherlock lied, wrenching his thoughts back to the matter at hand. It was aggravating, really, how his libido kept distracting him. He should be concentrating on the merits of the case, not on the merits of John Watson's excellent arse. Sherlock turned to face Molly, subtly spreading his legs as he laid his left arm along the back of the seat. "I also need to purchase a replacement for my broken phone," Sherlock added, his expression wry.

"Oh, that's easy enough," Molly replied. "There's a store not too far away that's open until eight."

"Good," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to fake a smile. "And on our way, you can tell me everything you know about John Watson."

~*~


	8. Flirting with Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly's choice of beverage is a nod to the lovely Galtori who made my day with an absolutely lovely message. Thank you!

~*~

Sherlock sighed and blew out a stream of smoke between his lips, savoring the rush of nicotine flooding his system. While it was nowhere near as enjoyable as his preferred 7% solution of cocaine, the rush of dopamine from the cigarette was still better than the over-the-counter analgesic Mike Stamford had prescribed for pain and swelling. Sherlock opened his eyes, watching the smoke ribbon float up before dissipating in the faint breeze.

Around him, the night air was redolent with the scents of woodsmoke from a campfire somewhere off in the distance, the warm, organic smell of the horse barns and the sweet fragrance of cut hay. The sky above once again resembled an unobscured swath of black velvet sprinkled with diamonds. It was a fanciful description, Sherlock recognized—Mycroft would almost certainly be appalled—but an accurate one nonetheless. Sherlock took a final drag from the cigarette and then dropped it on the ground in front of him, taking care to crush the glowing embers thoroughly underneath his heel. At his feet, Bonnie huffed and raised her head long enough to give Sherlock a reproving look for disturbing her sleep, before dropping her chin back down on top of Sherlock's boot and letting out a disgruntled sigh.

Sherlock's lips twisted in bemusement as he reached down to rub the collie's ears. Her tail began to thump against the ground in a gesture of apparent forgiveness. The impact sent little puffs of dried grass and dust into the air to join the remains of Sherlock's tobacco smoke. With a sigh, Sherlock straightened back up and picked up his oversized mug to take a long sip of his tea. His nose wrinkled in distaste. Lipton had nothing on either Twinings or PG Tips, but with enough sugar and milk, it could at least pass as as a quasi-acceptable source of caffeine for a man desperate for a cuppa. Taking another sip, Sherlock let his mind drift back over the additional details about John Watson he'd gleaned from Molly Hooper during their coffee date several hours earlier.

Contrary to his private expectations, the evening had ended up being surprisingly tolerable. Molly was an intelligent conversationalist when she wasn't blushing or attempting to flirt awkwardly. 

At Sherlock's insistence, their first stop after Molly had picked him up at the fairgrounds had been to purchase a replacement for Sherlock's mobile. It had been an exercise in frustration. Neither of the first two stores had carried a model that came even close to Sherlock's requirements. The third store had been much larger, with a far more extensive stock to draw on, but even then Sherlock had been forced to harangue the unfortunate clerk mercilessly until the man quit trying to sell him a dumbed down pay-as-you-go model and instead brought him the unlocked mobile Sherlock had initially requested. Sherlock hadn't even bothered balking at the price. Mycroft could afford it, and if he couldn't, one of his elder brother's pet accountants could make sure it was listed as one of Sherlock's business expenses. 

To Sherlock's relief, the chip in his original phone had been undamaged and transferring it to the new phone had been a fairly straightforward process. He'd checked his messages during the drive downtown, hoping for a reply from Detective Donovan, but his queue remained frustratingly empty. Seeing the hesitant look Molly was giving him, Sherlock had returned his phone to his pocket with a mental note to contact the detective again soon, before focusing his attention on Molly. He'd made sure to pepper her with questions about the scenery and her favourite restaurants and had been rewarded with a great deal of information, most of it useless. He really didn't care about Molly's responses; it was simply a means to an end to put her at ease and get her into the habit of answering his inquiries. 

'Ground Zero' had turned out to be small hole-in-the-wall cafe tucked between an antique store and a music studio. The cafe was located in the downtown Amarillo Historic District in a strip of buildings that he recognized as being late 1800s and early 1900s architecture. They were mostly one and two stories tall, built out of red or tan brick. Some had been painted, others had been left natural. The short structures, wide streets, enormous car parks, lack of noise and the abundance of open sky and heat could not have presented a more jarring contrast to the bustle and history of London's night life if Molly had wanted to. Sherlock found himself suppressing an unexpected pang of homesickness for his beloved city.

The inside of the cafe was likewise a mixture of period styles. The concrete floor had been stained a dark walnut brown. Some walls were bare tan brick; others were sheathed in plaster painted the colour of perfectly done toast. The Queen Victoria style tin-paneled ceiling had been left intact and given a fresh coat of cream paint. Artwork in a variety of styles and mediums and styles hung on the walls, offering splash of colours: crimson, turquoise, aubergine and moss to the otherwise monochromatic colour palette. The mismatched furniture spanned several decades and clearly second hand, but it was also clean and in fairly good repair. There was an upholstered floral chair that reminded Sherlock of the one Mrs. Hudson kept in the foyer of 221, and an overstuffed monstrosity from the 1970s that was clearly a favored seat, if the wear on the velvet cushions was any indicator. Two large wooden bookcases stood against one wall, both filled with a motley assortment of paperbacks. The titles ranged from instructional manuals on keeping bees to treatises on civil disobedience to romance novels. There were also a few heavily battered cardboard boxes containing chess sets and a few other board games. 

A wood paneled bar and a glass-fronted bakery display case sat up front, filled with an array of baked goods. While Sherlock doubted that they would be of Mrs. Hudson's caliber, he was forced to admit that they did look tempting, especially since his transport decided to abruptly remind him that he'd consumed nothing except several painkillers since breakfast. A enormous chalkboard on the wall behind the cafe counter spelled out the prices and specials in careful handwriting. While the beverage menu was far from extensive, it was clear, based on the descriptions and blends offered, that the baristas and bakers clearly took their craft seriously. His stomach had chosen that moment to give an audible growl, prompting a concerned look from Molly. With a mental eye roll, he acquiesced to the demands of his transport, adding a scone to his order. 

He'd been surprised by Molly's insistence on paying for their drinks and pastries. "The person who invites somebody out picks up the tab," Molly had explained with unexpected firmness as she'll pulled a bright pink fabric wallet covered with miniature skulls and crossbones out of her brown leather handbag to pay for Sherlock's black coffee, her own frappuccino topped with caramel syrup and whipped cream and two scones with butter (a cinnamon one for herself and a honey ginger scone for Sherlock). Molly had also insisted on carrying both mugs and one of the plates over to a semi-secluded corner in the back corner of the shop, leaving Sherlock to carry the other plate and their forks.

Molly had settled onto one end of an overstuffed sofa in an obvious invitation. After viewing his other seating options, Sherlock had reluctantly seated himself at the other end, taking care to angle his torso and rest one knee on the sofa between them as a barrier. As tempting as it had been to immediately begin quizzing Molly about the Triple C's new vet, specifically John Watson's dating record, his reputation, how long she'd known him, his qualifications and her general impressions of the man, Sherlock had resisted, knowing he'd get more information if he bided his time. Predictably, Molly had begun with a few tedious questions about his family and his tastes in movies, which he'd easily redirected into Molly's own interests.

To his private satisfaction, John's name had eventually come up and he'd managed to wheedle a surprising amount of information about the vet from Molly. It had been easy enough to do under the guise of seeing if the other man was a potential romantic rival for Molly's affections. Molly had blinked in apparent surprise, before shaking her head emphatically. 

"John Watson's nice enough, but he's not my cup of tea. He's a bit too short for my tastes...and besides, I prefer brunets," Molly had explained, ducking her head down to stare intently at the whipped cream floating on top of her drink.

Sherlock hadn't bothered to argue that he'd found John's compact stature to be perfectly proportionate for his well-muscled frame, or that he'd admired the competent deftness of the vet's hands. What _was_ it with his subconscious, all of the sudden? Instead, he'd tilted his head to one side while biting his lower lip. "Oh? Why not? I would think that most women would jump at the chance to date a doctor. I'd assuming a veterinarian would be considered quite the catch." 

Molly had shrugged. "That's assuming the vet in question is inclined to settle down any."

"I take it he isn't?"

Molly had scrunched up her nose before shaking her head in negation. "Not so far as I know. Edith's gone on a few dates with him—though I don't know if they actually had a relationship, or if they were just having a bit of fun together. John Watson's a cocky flirt...with a bit of a temper...kind of like Joe was, I guess in that respect."

"I would think the financial incentives would be enough to overlook any past...indiscretions," Sherlock had observed dryly.

Molly had shaken her head. "I don't think rodeo vets really make that much, and with Harry being who she is...well...never mind."

Sherlock had raised an eyebrow at that, silently inviting Molly to continue. Molly had been the second, no, third person who'd remarked about Harry Watson's less-than-stellar character traits. Donovan had identified Harry Watson as an alcoholic with a criminal record, and John himself had muttered something vague about his sister being 'difficult' at the clinic. He'd been curious to see how Molly would describe the vet's sister. Perhaps it would offer additional insights into John Watson's financial concerns. 

Instead of answering though, Molly had flushed and taken a sip of her frappuccino. "It's just nasty gossip," Molly had mumbled, looking embarrassed. "I shouldn't even be mentioning it, really. Sorry."

"I thought you said Doctor Watson was a decent sort?" Sherlock had widened his eyes and adopted a concerned expression. It was an easy enough ploy; people often didn't like answering questions, but few could resist the temptation to contradict somebody. As expected, Molly blinked and looked horrified at the insinuation. 

"Oh, he is," Molly had replied. "It's his sister who's a mess." At Sherlock's skeptical look, Molly had bitten her lip and shrugged. "It's...well...Edith told me that one of their dates got cut short when Doctor Watson got a call from the police about his sister being arrested for starting a bar fight with three drunk guys."

"His _sister_ did?" Sherlock had taken care to sound shocked.

Molly had nodded.

"With _three_ drunk men?"

Molly had nodded again, tucking a flyaway strand of hair back behind her ear.

"What did they _do_?"

"They...um...apparently made some...less than flattering remarks about gays and lesbians and since Harry was there with a date and they'd been drinking it...got...pretty ugly. Edith said that John—sorry, Doctor Watson—was absolutely furious by the time they got there. She said he also chinned one of the officers and got arrested because of it. Not exactly a romantic evening," Molly had commented ruefully, taking another sip of her drink, "but certainly exciting."

Sherlock had blinked and taken a sip of his coffee to buy himself a moment while he'd considered his response. He'd pursed his lips, silently debating. Should he sound impressed? Skeptical? Bemused? Consolatory? Could he get an answer to a question that had been niggling at him ever since John Watson had first introduced himself? "Well, that certainly would be a memorable date," Sherlock had finally commented slowly. "Did Edith say why Doctor Watson lost his temper?"

"I think it was a couple of reasons...Edith described the damage to the bar—it sounded awful—and I've heard from a couple of the cow hands how much bail can be if you get arrested for being drunk and disorderly...mostly I think it was the slurs."

"Oh?"

"Edith said one of the officers said gays and lesbians and transgender people were all 'freaks' and 'weirdos' and that if they just followed the teachings of Jesus, they'd be fine."

Sherlock had opened and closed his mouth several times. There were so many things wrong with the police officer's homophobic and transphobic remarks, he didn't know where to begin. "I see," Sherlock had eventually replied, adopting a deliberately neutral tone. "Do you know if it was just because Doctor Watson's sister was being harassed or do you think it was something he took personal offense at?"

"Why do you ask?" Molly had inquired with a tilt of her head. Her expression had been unexpectedly wary. 

Was it jealousy? Sherlock had wondered. Did Molly think that Sherlock's question implied personal interest, despite Sherlock's careful efforts to simulate attraction to the woman sitting across from him? Or was it private concern that Sherlock might be a homophobic bigot? They were in Texas, after all, and the United States had a rather...unpleasant reputation for discrimination in large parts of the country. Sherlock had eventually settled for giving Molly an apologetic smile and opting for subterfuge again. "I'm not concerned with his sexual preferences," (which was a lie, even if only to himself). "I'm worried about his qualifications as a vet; it sounds like Doctor Watson has a nasty temper." 

"Oh, nononono, nothing like that," Molly had shaken her head emphatically, obviously relieved at Sherlock's stated lack of concern about John Watson's sexual orientation. "His temper isn't a problem; Doctor Watson simply isn't the type of person to just stand by and let an injustice happen. Doctor Watson is an excellent vet, and he obviously loves horses. That's why Devil's Blaze is still alive, after all." 

"I was wondering about that, actually," Sherlock had remarked casually, pouncing on the conversational segue before taking another sip of his truly excellent coffee. "Do you have any idea why Doctor Watson happened to be at the fairgrounds the morning that Devil's Blaze went berserk?" 

Molly had nodded. "I do, actually. I ran into Doctor Watson doing a checkup on Captain Lestrade's police horse, Scotty. He was the one who actually suggested that I check for Joe in the Bill Cody building."

"Oh? What time?"

"A little after six a.m., I think? I remember being surprised at seeing Doctor Watson there so early, especially on a Monday morning."

Sherlock's interest had been caught. It had been difficult to conceal his excitement at the new information. Instead, he'd adopted a concerned expression. "What was wrong with Captain Lestrade's horse? Nothing serious, I hope?"

"I don't think so," Molly had replied. "Doctor Watson mentioned that Captain Lestrade was worried because Scotty had been acting unusually spooky."

"Huh," Sherlock had muttered, drumming his fingers on the table in thought. Molly's off-hand remark, combined with Donovan's suspicions about John Watson could be an important clue. He would need to interview Captain Lestrade and examine his horse at some point. It was possible that the events were unrelated, but any possible connection, no matter how nebulous, needed to be investigated. "I see. Anything else?

Molly had scrunched her nose in thought. "Not really...no, wait, Doctor Watson said something about Scotty's eyes being a bit inflamed, but I think he might have attributed it to dust or something. I'm really not sure; you'd have to ask him." She had given Sherlock an apologetic shrug before picking up her neglected scone to take a bite, leaving a scattering of crumbs on the plate.

"I might do that," Sherlock had replied vaguely, slotting Molly's comments into his mental archive for further investigation. Police horses were well trained so that they would remain calm under circumstances that would send the average horse into a panic. The mere suggestion of one acting uncharacteristically nervous—especially considering the close proximity to the time and place that Devil's Blaze had gone berserk—merited closer investigation. The information that John Watson had suggested that Molly search for the absent trainer in the same barn where his corpse had been found was rather more incriminating. He'd taken another sip of his coffee before redirecting the conversation to Molly's college courses. 

Their conversation had garnered several appalled looks when Molly had begun telling him about the equine necropsy she'd witnessed, and at least one couple had relocated to a different area when Molly had launched into a detailed (and enthusiastic) description of the intestinal lymphoma tumor she'd helped dissect. Molly's obvious fascination with the topic had prompted Sherlock to offer up an anecdote or two of his own about the different types of tumors he'd seen over the years, including a squamous cell carcinoma on the inside of a horse's bottom eyelid (something an idiot novice vet had misdiagnosed as a fly bite), and an enormous sarcoid tumor he'd seen removed from the inside of a horse's hind leg. That, in turn, had prompted another discussion about different types of cysts, tumors and lesions that could appear on a horse's skin, treatment options, and the different types of pus that might be expressed.

Fortunately Molly hadn't seemed to expect a goodnight kiss when they'd arrived back at the ranch and Sherlock had been able to spend several productive hours researching the case. He’d chosen to focus his efforts on rodeo-related gambling in light of Lestrade’s comments about betting.

While bull-riding was the main focus of gamblers (both professional and not), there was a sizeable community devoted to betting on the outcome of bucking bronco competitions as well. As Lestrade had said, the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association and some other organizations explicitly opposed gambling by members on event outcomes at any PRCA-sanctioned rodeo. Others simply prohibited members from placing bets on events in which they had any sort of a personal or professional stake. Rodeo clowns couldn’t bet on bull-riding events, and horse suppliers and their staff were similarly barred from placing bets on events involving equines.

Which likely explained Straker’s choice of event.

Lestrade also hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d mentioned that Johan Straker had a knack for picking winning bulls. There were quite a few underground websites devoted to tracking particularly successful gamblers in a variety of sports and Straker’s name appeared repeatedly in connection to particularly lucrative bullrides. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he began calculating Straker’s reported earnings against the payouts listed. 

Donovan’s report based on Straker’s official taxed income was ridiculously low. 

Clearly not all of Mr. Straker’s gambling activities were strictly legal. 

Sherlock pulled out his mobile to send Donovan a text about what he’d learned. The fact that it was almost 4:00 a.m. was irrelevant; either the detective was dedicated enough to be constantly available, or else she was intelligent enough to turn her phone to silent.

_Straker involved in illegal gambling. See if he has an offshore account. SH_

A pause, then.

_The hell?!_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Straker underreported his annual gambling earnings by 30K. Do the math. SH_

There was another pause and Sherlock imagined Donovan was probably cursing him for taking her previously-assumed tidy case and contorting it into a Byzantine plot with his abrupt revelation. 

After a moment his phone beeped again. 

_OK. Wll lt u know wht I find out._

Sherlock sighed as he tucked his mobile away, grateful that Donovan could handle the busywork. He could always call on Anthea for assistance if Donovan's efforts proved futile. As much as he despised his transport's need to sleep, his work with Devil's Blaze would begin in earnest tomorrow and he needed to be well rested. Especially in light of Molly’s offhand-comment that John Watson might not be quite as innocent as he appeared.

~*~

"Relax," Sherlock crooned to the horse cowering on the other side of the pen as he swung his right leg over to straddle the top rail of the fence. It had been a little over two weeks since he'd arrived on the ranch and progress had been slow.

Sherlock was fully aware that he was a somewhat intimidating sight from his perch on the top of the high fence. Not that it could be helped; not as long as Devil's Blaze ran the risk of bolting. Unfortunately, from the horse's viewpoint, Sherlock almost certainly resembled a predator, perhaps a mountain lion, seeking a higher vantage point in preparation for dropping down on its prey. His current outfit probably didn't help either.

Despite the blistering heat, Sherlock had elected to don full protective gear in addition to his normal long-sleeved shirt and jeans. A dark gray, Woof Wear Exo Body Protector padded vest was buckled around his torso, while a dark blue safety helmet covered his head, crushing his naturally curly hair close against his scalp. Sherlock could feel drops of sweat trickling down his neck and soaking the shirt he wore underneath. He would need to give his equipment a thorough wash in the next day or so at this rate. 

Devil's Blaze snorted unhappily, his nostrils flaring as he pushed himself even further against the metal wall of the pen, never removing his eyes from Sherlock. From his perch above, Sherlock could see the whites of the stallion's eyes and the patchy sweat dotting his copper-coloured coat. The stallion's tail was clamped down tight between his buttocks and his ears were cocked sharply forward and angled towards Sherlock. Everything about the stallion's body language indicated his fear, but he wasn't running yet, which was a good sign. 

Horses, by nature, were prey animals, while humans were predators. A horse's first instinct when threatened was to flee, followed by fighting if flight wasn't an option. The fact that the stallion was still watching Sherlock instead of running around the pen in a blind panic indicated that the stallion was still using the thinking side of his brain, rather than the reactive side. 

Unfortunately, 'thinking' did necessarily mean 'listening'. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, easily recognizing the signs that the stallion was too frightened to listen to any of his commands. With a sigh, Sherlock swung his leg over the top rail and sat down, prepared to wait as long as necessary for the stallion to relax again. 

The sun was high overhead and he shifted slightly, trying to find a cooler spot on the uncomfortably warm metal bars digging into his arse. Drops of sweat began to trickle into his eyes, making them sting. Sherlock blinked, doing his best to keep his gaze focused on his target. The last thing he wanted was to miss some vitally important body language clue because of his transport. Almost absently, the fingers of his left hand began to tap out the patterns of Shostakovich's _Concerto No. 1 in A minor_. It was an old habit; the ability to practice his violin in his mind was a skill he'd acquired early on. It had stood him in good stead during the tedium of his Uni lectures, (the ones he hadn't skipped outright, that was), and it was a productive way to pass the time when he had no choice but to sit and wait while he pondered his strategy. 

It taken some effort and the use of some portable fencing, but with the help of the Tregennis brothers, Socorro Valdez and Ms. Ross herself, he'd managed to successfully transfer Devil's Blaze from the quarantine paddock to the round pen without anybody being seriously injured. Despite what the Tregennis brothers clearly thought, there was a reason behind his order and it wasn't simply him being demanding because he could. 

The circular pen gave the stallion a better area to run in and the lack of corners would make it harder for the stallion to trap him. The eight-foot walls also meant that Devil's Blaze probably wouldn't be able to jump over and escape when Sherlock eventually entered the pen. The last thing he wanted was a dangerously aggressive horse running wild, which was a real risk considering Devil's Blaze's prior history. The difference in the fence panels' composition was also a factor. The quarantine paddock's fence contained only three rails and they were spaced fairly widely apart. By contrast, the round pen's panels each contained five horizontal bars that were placed far closer together. The smaller gap meant that there was no way for an adult horse to get his or her head through and bite a person standing near the fence. 

Sherlock pursed his lips as he considered his progress over the last fortnight. Generally when a potential client contacted him about a horse being 'bad' it was down to a handful of reasons: pain, an idiot human, or residual trauma from a prior idiot human. The problem behaviors being displayed were symptoms of an underlying cause. Clumsy handling, poorly-fitting tack, hormones...a lack of respect, any number of situations could make even the most well-behaved and laid-back horse shy away or kick out reflexively, but even those generally followed some sort of pattern or at least had an identifiable trigger.

The problem was that Devil's Blaze didn't.

Sherlock was experienced enough to recognize that fear, not inherent maliciousness, lay at the root of the stallion's behavior, but the 'why' continued to elude him, despite his best efforts. Regardless of whatever had caused the stallion's change of behavior—and his suspicion of some sort of chemical agent was definitely increasing—his first step, before he could even hope to begin collecting samples, let alone get the horse rodeo-worthy again, was reversing the stallion's fear of humans by gradual desensitization via approach and retreat. 

It was a tried and true method of training, whether it was getting a horse used to the sound of a gunshot or barking dog or the smell of smoke or the sensation of walking over a wobbly surface. The trick, especially when working a fearful equine, was not to punish him or her for reacting instinctively; such an action would only frighten the horse further. Instead, it was important for the trainer to reward the horse for relaxing, and then gradually increasing the scope, type and duration of the exposure as the horse's comfort zone expanded and they ceased to view a new experience as a threat. 

For a horse that was wary of being shod, it might start with getting him or her comfortable with having their hooves picked up, progressing to tapping on the hooves with the handle of the hoof pick to mimic the action of a farrier and increasing the intensity of the blows until the horse learned that they were perfectly safe and would stand quietly while the farrier did her or his work. 

In the case of Devil's Blaze, his first objective had been getting the stallion to first tolerate his presence. It was a time-consuming process, made exhausting by the amount of concentration required to continuously analyze and interpret the stallion's body language for clues to the underlying reason for his behavior. The ridiculously hot, dry temperatures, as opposed to the far more comfortable cool dampness of London added to Sherlock's overall misery. 

He'd begun by approaching the pen from different angles and different periods throughout the day, sometimes with food, and sometimes without, being careful to maintain consistently passive body language all the while. He was careful to avoid becoming predictable. Predators were creatures of habit and tended to follow set patterns, while prey animals learned to work around patterns to avoid being trapped. By changing up the routine, he was signaling to the stallion that he wasn't a threat. Inevitably though, at some point during his approach, Devil's Blaze would spook at his proximity. Every time the stallion did, Sherlock would stop and wait for the stallion to calm down and stop running. Sometimes he would tuck his hands into his pockets and drop his shoulders, other times he'd indulge Bonnie in a petting session. Once the stallion relaxed, Sherlock would note the distance, back away calmly, and then repeat the cycle, gradually working his way closer as the days passed.

He'd also spent countless hours just sitting outside the pen and talking, getting the stallion familiar with the sound of Sherlock's voice and his personal scent. It didn't matter what he actually said, the pitch and intonation were what Devil's Blaze was listening to. In the past, he'd recited everything from the periodic table to Darwin's 'Origin of the Species' to his equine clients, much to the bemusement of some onlookers. 

Bonnie often joined him, sprawling out either on her side or back in a shameless demand for belly rubs. If Sherlock didn't take the hint, the collie would roll over to her front and nudge her head under Sherlock's left hand, taking advantage of his tendency to practice violin fingerings to earn herself an absent-minded petting. 

Sherlock wasn't certain why, exactly, the collie had taken to following him around the ranch, but her presence remained constant. He wasn't one to assign human behaviors to canines, but both Old Wayne and Candii Ross had commented on the way the collie could frequently be found watching Sherlock from the shade of a nearby barn or tree, or else 'helping' him by sniffing at the clumps of manure and soiled hay he raked free from the stallion's pen. Bonnie had even taken to invading his cottage some evenings, keeping Sherlock company on the porch while he smoked and then joining him inside, much to Sherlock's bemusement. 

It was rather nice, actually. The collie didn't care what he did (or didn't) wear in private, and the little huffs and whimpers and growls she made were surprisingly comforting. Domestic, even. She'd taken to kipping at the end of the sofa while Sherlock wandered through the corridors of his mind palace, or occupied himself reading and re-reading his way through reams of information. It had been years since he'd last had a dog and Sherlock had almost forgotten how pleasant it was to rest his bare feet against warm fur. 

Interestingly enough, Devil's Blaze didn't seem to view Bonnie as a threat, which was more than could be said for either Sherlock or Sherlock's attempt to introduce a companion goat. The stallion hadn't outright attacked the nanny goat, safe as she was on the other side of the pen, but the ear flattening, angry squealing and bared teeth had made it clear that she wasn't welcome. Bonnie, by contrast, had merited a curious sniff and had been subsequently ignored. 

Sherlock's persistence had finally paid off. He could now stand directly outside of the pen, without Devil's Blaze screaming in fear. It had been almost a week since the stallion had last tried to attack him through the rails. Now it was time to move on to the next step: enter the pen, establish his dominance and gradually work his way up to being able to actually handle the stallion. 

Sherlock sighed as he felt another rivulet of sweat run down his spine, adding to the itchy, sticky feeling of his skin. Effective horse training depended on respect, not fear, but because the term 'dominance' could be rather nebulous, it was often misconstrued as the latter, rather than the former. There were countless idiots who thought 'dominance' meant using whips or harsh bits or other forms of corporal punishment against their horse to teach their horse who was the 'boss' or 'Alpha mare' in the human/equine relationship. What 'dominance' really meant was a relationship in which the horse respected and trusted the human enough to follow him or her as a leader.

Almost absently, Sherlock brushed his left hand over the holster he wore on his hip, checking one last time that the small but extremely powerful stun gun it contained was in its proper place and that the collapsable training stick currently hidden in his left sleeve was ready. Habit had him pulling the stun gun out partway to double-check that the safety tether was still attached firmly to both the handle and his belt. His objective for today was to begin establishing respect via groundwork, but in the event he did need to draw the gun to defend himself, the last thing he wanted to risk was dropping it or having it fly out of his hands and landing somewhere beyond his reach. Satisfied, Sherlock dropped the gun back into its holster. 

Sherlock knew that some individuals would consider using a stun gun against an animal to be tantamount to abuse, but from a purely practical standpoint, he couldn't train horses if he was dead. Past experience had demonstrated the stun gun's value as a tool of last resort in certain situations. Despite all of Sherlock's caution and experience, he'd thrice been trapped against a wall or backed in a corner with no room to escape. Two of the times had involved out-of-control stallions determined to kill him by ripping out his throat. The third had been a rescue animal, driven psychotic by fear. 

Taking a final breath to center himself, Sherlock dropped to the ground, grimacing in pain at the pull on his arm. Wearing the brace would have been the more intelligent decision, but he couldn't throw out the subtle hand signals he needed while wearing it; the wrappings inhibited his movement. Nor did he want to wear anything that the stallion might interpret as a tool to hurt him. It was hard, but he resisted the urge to stretch and flex his fingers. To the horse watching him warily, they would resemble nothing so much as an animal unsheathing its claws. He quickly took two large steps forward so that he was away from the fence, then stopped as Devil's Blaze threw his head up and neighed loudly. Sherlock could see the whites of his eyes standing out in sharp contrast to the stallion's copper coat as the stallion focused on him. The horse's ears swiveled back and forth rapidly, checking for danger. His front legs were splayed and he was leaning back on his hindquarters, clearly seconds from bolting.

Fear, not aggression. It was an important distinction.

"I'm quite aware of the idiocy of speaking to you as if you are capable of comprehending English," Sherlock said calmly, angling his body at a forty-five degree angle so that it wouldn't look like he was planning on pouncing. He was careful to keep his body language relaxed and his hands held out slightly to the sides so the stallion could see they were currently empty: no whips, ropes or clubs. "Nonetheless," Sherlock continued, his voice soothing, "I feel compelled to point out that—despite what you are no doubt anticipating based on your prior experiences—I'm not here to hurt you. You're all right..." 

Sherlock took several slow steps forward, until he was almost at the center of the pen, and halted. If the stallion did decide to bolt, he now had the greatest possible running space around the perimeter of the pen. Sherlock stood quietly in the hot sun, neither increasing nor decreasing the pressure on the stallion as he waited for the horse to calm down and accept his presence. He was paying close attention to Devil's Blaze's body language, so he noticed it immediately when the stallion's warning signs shifted from 'frightened' to 'threatening'. 

"Stop it," Sherlock said firmly as he made deliberate eye contact with the stallion, mimicking the way an older mare might watch a misbehaving yearling. Devil's Blaze snorted again and lowered his head. His ears went flat as he pawed at the ground with his right front foreleg in an unmistakable warning. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as the stallion took a threatening step forward. Instead of stepping backwards, Sherlock stood his ground. The stallion was testing him. While it was a myth that a single stallion or 'boss mare' was always in charge of a horse herd, there were definite social and hierarchy dynamics at work. Every herd had a pecking order, and each horse challenged it daily, jockeying for status points, because rank determined who drank first, who got the best feed and (in the case of stallions) who got to mate. At its most basic, 'ranking' in a herd could be defined as 'who could make whom move.' The winner, or dominant horse was the horse that made the other horse move away first. Sherlock's lips tightened as he watched the stallion. Devil's Blaze was about to learn that, in their herd of two, Sherlock was the leader. 

"Don't try to threaten me," Sherlock said calmly as the stallion took another aggressive step forward, his head snaking from side to side as he did so. "I know who I am. It doesn't work." Sherlock shifted slightly up onto the balls of his feet and prepared to pivot. "Calm down It is ridiculously hot and you _will_ regret it." 

Rather than heed Sherlock's advice, Devil's Blaze snorted once more and abruptly charged forward, attempting to mow Sherlock down, only to be thwarted as Sherlock anticipated the attack.

"Moron," Sherlock huffed as he spun out of harm's way in an effortless pirouette. He used the momentum to drop the collapsible training wand in his left hand and snapped his wrist to extend it fully. "Now _move!_ " Sherlock's voice cracked like a whip in the still air, as he immediately moved forward to take control of the stallion's feet. The order was spoken, not shouted, so as to not frighten the horse unnecessarily, but the command in his tone was unmistakable. Sherlock locked eyes with the stallion as he flung his right arm up and pointed to the right while simultaneously clucking his tongue in another signal to move. 

The gesture and command drove the stallion's initial charge forward, past Sherlock, and into a canter around the edge of the pen while Sherlock pivoted on his heels to keep the stallion in sight at all times. "Faster," Sherlock snapped, stamping his foot and moving in to deliver a quick blow to the stallion's rump when Devil's Blaze pinned his ears back and began to slow in preparation for a turn. "I said _move_." 

Sherlock forced the stallion to run almost two dozen laps, driving him with sound of his voice, his eyes and motion of his body, waiting for the signal that the stallion was ready to listen to him. When the stallion's ears changed from both ears being pinned back to one ear cocked in Sherlock's direction, Sherlock modified his posture to release the pressure, using his body language to give Devil's Blaze the order to stop. 

Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that the stallion wasn't inclined to listen, despite his body language. Instead of looking at Sherlock and pricking his ears forward in a sign of respect, the stallion reared up and charged Sherlock in a display of fear-fueled aggression. 

Irritating, but not exactly surprising. With horses—especially abused and frightened horses—rehabilitation became almost a dance. Two steps forward, one step back. 

Despite the adrenaline surging through his system, Sherlock was careful to remain calm as he once again drove the stallion into a run around the pen, following at his heels and urging him on with clicking noises when necessary to make him run faster. Mycroft had taught him that sentiment had no place in horse training. If one tried to deal with a horse based on emotions, the horse wouldn't understand what was being asked. At best, it would end up with a confused, unhappy or disrespectful mount. At worst, it would manifest itself in abuse through fear or anger. 

Sherlock had been working with the stallion for roughly an hour when he became distantly aware that somebody was watching him. It was a noticeably different sensation from the casual glances the staff had been sending his direction all day. Those looks had been casual, easy to dismiss. This was intense. He could almost feel the imaginary weight of the watcher's gaze lingering over his form, paying close attention to the muscles of his arse and the play of his shoulders. As tempting as it was to turn around and glare, Sherlock ignored the impulse. Removing his gaze from an eighty-five-stone animal determined to kill him would be an idiotic, amateurish mistake. Assuming he did so (and survived), Mycroft would almost certainly mock him over his lapse in judgement. Whoever was watching him could wait until he was finished. 

Despite Sherlock's best efforts to convince the stallion to trust him, Devil's Blaze repeatedly tried to slow and turn his hindquarters to Sherlock in a warning to back off, or else tried to move away from the fence in preparation for a sideways cow kick. Each time he did, it forced Sherlock to preempt the stallion's attack by either stamping his feet and dashing at the stallion's rump to make him speed up again, or throwing an arm up and ordering Devil's Blaze to change direction while urging him on with loud clicking noises. From time to time, Sherlock command the horse to stop and watched him for a few moments, attempting to convey that he was not a threat, only to have the stallion rush at him, beginning the entire process over again under the hot sun. Finally the horse finally stumbled to a stop at Sherlock's request and just stood there with his head lowered, sides heaving, clearly to worn out to do much more than watch Sherlock warily. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he evaluated Devil's Blaze for signs of physical distress. The stallion's copper-coloured coat was so flecked with lather, it looked like he'd been sprayed with shaving foam, but he was still sweating, which was a good sign. Devil's Blaze's breathing was also beginning to slow the way it should. Sherlock could tell that there was no way the stallion would let him do either a skin-pinch test for dehydration, or press on his gums to check his capillary refill, but at least the horse was still fully aware of his surroundings, which was another good sign. If the stallion was overheated, it wasn't to dangerous levels. It was also probable that, as exhausted as he was, he would finally tolerate Sherlock's approach. 

Devil's Blaze blew out a final, deep breath, only to jerk his head up as Sherlock took a half-step towards the horse, keeping his posture loose and once again keeping his body at an angle towards the horse, rather than approaching him head on. It was less threatening that way. Horses were prey animals: a tense, frightened or angry human approaching quickly instinctively meant 'predator' and 'danger,' to the horse, while a relaxed human approaching from the side meant just the opposite. In front of him, Devil's Blaze shifted his feet, his hooves kicking up little clouds of dust that were easily blown away by the soft breeze, but he didn't run. 

"You're all right," Sherlock repeated calmly, noting the way that Blaze's wide-eyed gaze remained fixed on him. Blaze's ears were angled sharply forward and his mouth was tightly closed. All were clear signs of tension, despite Sherlock's slow approach and the stallion's visible exhaustion. Sherlock took a final step forward and halted, standing approximately five feet away. He extended a fist to offer the horse his scent, mimicking the position of another horse's muzzle. Rather than sniff it however, the stallion grunted and stumbled sideways several steps to the side, moving away from Sherlock. 

Nodding to himself, Sherlock used his heel to scratch a mark in the sandy soil of the pen and backed away several feet, before re-approaching the mark. He adjusted the placement several times to keep his proximity to the stallion the same each time the stallion moved sideways until Devil's Blaze finally stood still. 

"There you go," Sherlock observed softly. "Now breathe." He looked at the stallion with a rueful smile. "Are you finally starting to accept, somewhere, deep in your paraventricular thalamus that I am not a threat and that I am not here to hurt you, boy?" 

The stallion whickered plaintively, clearly pushed to the edge of his stamina. 

"I know," Sherlock told him gently, his baritone voice a soothing rumble as the stallion finally bowed his head in a sign of submission. "I know. It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, because you finally did what I wanted you to do, I'm going to leave you alone." Sherlock took a careful sliding step back from the exhausted animal, working his way back to the pen's wall. "But first, I'm going to get you some water and walk you out. It isn't safe to let you drink your fill until you've cooled down and I have absolutely no intention of letting you kill yourself via colic due to hyperdistension of the stomach." 

Keeping his eyes fixed on the horse, Sherlock reached behind himself to take a firm grip on the middle rail of the extra-high pen with his good arm. Gritting his teeth against the flash of pain in his wrist, he reached up and snagged the top rail with his other hand. A quick, cat-like scramble and he was over the railing before Devil's Blaze could do more than take a few steps forward. Breathing hard, Sherlock pushed off from the top rail as he dropped to the ground, his knees flexing easily to ensure a graceful landing several feet away from the fence. He took a large step backwards to move himself safely out of range should the stallion take it into his head to try attacking him again and turned, fully prepared to berate whoever was watching him for presenting an unacceptable distraction. 

Unfortunately, the impact of the soles of his boots against the dry ground kicked up a large puff of dust. It added to the grit already filling the air around the corral and agitating his sinuses. Feeling the familiar tickle in his nose and throat, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, not wanting to frighten Devil's Blaze with an unexpected loud noise, but he was unable to prevent himself from sneezing twice in rapid succession. The resultant sound resembled nothing so much as an overgrown kitten squeaking, prompting a delighted, high-pitched giggle from his unidentified watcher. 

Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes to glare at the giggler, only to stop short in surprise. His observer wasn't Candii Ross, or worse yet, one of the flirty brunette barrel racers; it was John Watson. One of the vet's hands was tucked into his pocket. The other hand was rubbing gently at Bonnie's ears while the collie leaned against his leg, her tongue lolling in the canine equivalent of a blissful smile. John's smile widened as he caught Sherlock's eye and he looked Sherlock up and down, clearly appreciative of what he saw. 

Sherlock swallowed, feeling an answering flutter deep in his belly, the same illogical flutter he'd felt several weeks ago when the man had helped him up and wrapped his injured wrist and declared his observations to be 'amazing' rather than telling Sherlock to piss off. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock repressed the flutter with a firm squelch, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the sheer ridiculousness of sexual desire. He unbuckled his helmet and shook his head, before running his fingers through his hair making a half-hearted attempt at restoring his sweat-plastered curls to their normally tousled style. Bonnie, meanwhile stood up and bounded over, panting happily as she sniffed at Sherlock's jeans. 

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked bluntly, not quite certain if he was addressing John or the dog. He reached down and gently nudged Bonnie's nose away from his groin. The collie sneezed and began sniffing at his boots instead, her plumed tail wagging madly. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the dog's ministrations and began to unbuckle his safety vest, using the motions and angle of his body to disguise the scrutinizing look he gave John. _Dust, mud, traces of horsehair, sweat stains underneath his arms and at the collar of his shirt, indicative of physical labor…_

"Not really," John replied, apparently oblivious to Sherlock's scrutiny. He cocked his hip and rested his left hand on his belt, near his buckle. "I was just enjoying watching you move," John added with a wink. At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, the vet gave him an unrepentant grin. "Seeing you work with that stallion is flat out amazing." Still smiling, John offered his right hand. "John Watson? From the other day?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, reluctantly slipping back into character. He smiled. "I remember you, Doctor Watson. Thank you again for your help at the fairgrounds." 

"John, please, and you're welcome. I was glad to do it." John tipped his head, indicating Sherlock's injured right wrist. "Speaking of, how's the arm?"

"It hurts," Sherlock confessed, belatedly realising that he'd been massaging the throbbing ligaments in his wrist; it was probably what had prompted John to ask the question. 

"I'm not surprised," John replied, his tone chiding. He reached out and picked up Sherlock's arm and palpated it gently, nodding matter-of-factly when Sherlock winced. "It's swollen, which is to be expected, considering I just saw you scale a fence like an idiot. Why aren't you wearing your splint, the way Mike advised?" 

"Dull. The splint interferes with my hand signals," Sherlock complained, reclaiming his arm and deliberately ignoring the lingering warmth that John's touch had left behind. "I'll be fine; I've had worse. I'll rewrap it and ice it later."

John flashed a look that clearly communicated his opinion of Sherlock's intelligence, but didn't say anything beyond, "it's your arm." Tucking his hands into his pockets, John turned to look past Sherlock's shoulder to the exhausted horse watching them warily. "And how is the Devil? As evil as ever?"

"That's hyperbole, John, and you know it," Sherlock scolded. "Animals do not possess a capacity for the human ideological concepts of 'good' and 'evil'...my elder sibling's opinion on cats notwithstanding. Physically? Devil's Blaze's injuries are mostly healed from what I can determine. There will always be some scarring, but there is no indication that he's still experiencing physical pain. Mentally is a different matter. I'm still working on getting him to trust me. Speaking of, I need to get him some water and walk him out."

"Want some help?" John asked immediately. "I could pass you the water bucket?"

Sherlock blinked, surprised and slightly suspicious of the offer. He shook his head. "Thank you, but I'm simply going to push it underneath the fence. It's safer for everybody." So saying, he picked up the empty five-gallon bucket and walked over to a nearby faucet, John following closely. It was the work of a moment to fill the bucket with a few gallons of water. Sherlock turned off the faucet. Once the stallion was cooled down, he would offer him more water, but in the interim, a few gallons would suffice. 

Mindful of the day's heat, Sherlock plunged his left hand into the water to check the temperature. It was tepid, rather than cold. Satisfied with the temperature, Sherlock opened the blue liter of Gatorade Ms. Ross had supplied him with and upended it into the bucket. The Gatorade contained valuable electrolytes, something the exhausted stallion would need. He reached down to pick up the bucket, but a sun-browned hand seized the handle first. 

"I've got it," John answered Sherlock's unspoken question with a cocky smile as he hefted the bucket with easy grace and striding back to the fence. There was an unmistakable swagger in his steps and Sherlock found his eyes automatically focusing on John's denim-clad arse. 

Again. 

Idiot transport.

"Where do you want it?" John called out from where he was standing beside the fence.

The question distracted Sherlock from his mental wanderings and he gratefully refocused on the matter at hand. "Anywhere under the railing is fine," Sherlock replied, swallowing hard and hurrying back to the corral and the visibly exhausted stallion. The horse raised his head and snorted, but didn't try to immediately charge him. Taking that as a positive sign, Sherlock pushed the bucket that John handed him underneath the fence and stepped back. John, taking his cue from Sherlock, did the same.

With another snort, the exhausted stallion stepped forward. He crossed the ground slowly, keeping a wary eye on the two humans. When the stallion was almost to the fence, Sherlock reached out and pulled the bucket away, causing the horse to whicker angrily and stamp a front hoof. 

"None of that," Sherlock scolded softly. "If I let you drink your fill right now, you'll either founder, or give yourself a potentially lethal case of colic. If I get into the pen with you, you'll only panic and start running again—which isn't something you can afford to do." He moved to pick up the bucket, but once again John grabbed the handle before Sherlock could. 

"Like I said, I've got it," John reminded him with a wink. "Where to? The opposite halfway point, like normal?" At Sherlock's nod of agreement the blond man hefted it up, forearm muscles flexing under the weight. When he reached the designated point, John set the bucket down and Sherlock shoved it underneath the bottom rail of the fence. The horse's ears pinned back in apparent anger, but he stepped forward as soon as Sherlock and John stepped back.

They repeated the cycle twice more before finally letting Blaze have a few mouthfuls of tepid water. John glanced at his watch and at the sun overhead. "What do you think? Walk him for at least another five and then another drink?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, eying the lather that flecked the stallion's sides. He calculated the horse's pulse rate in relation to the current temperature. "And then another drink ten minutes after that." 

"His gait looks good," John observed aloud, reaching back to rub absently at the back of his neck. "You going to hose him off?"

"If he'll let me. Legs and belly only," Sherlock replied. "I can't get close enough to him yet to use a sweat scraper."

"I'll help," John offered quickly. Before Sherlock could refuse, John was striding back to the barn and pulling free the extra-long hose coiled up on a hanger on the wall. Sherlock stared after him, puzzled by John's repeated offers of assistance. Surely the vet had other duties to attend to? Before Sherlock could think further on the matter, John was back, pressing the nozzle of the hose into Sherlock's hand with another warm smile.

When the stallion was safely cooled down, John filled the bucket a final time and placed it in the patchy shade cast by one of the ranch's numerous trees. _A populous deltoids monilifera, or Plains Cottonwood_ , Sherlock's mind supplied as he watched the play of light and shadows over John's strong back. Sherlock blinked, realizing that the vet was now gazing at him, instead of the horse. As Sherlock watched, John's tongue came out, a quick, flicking moment as John wet his bottom lip. John opened his mouth, obviously preparing to ask Sherlock something, when a splash of colour caught Sherlock's eye. He turned to see the owner of the Triple C striding towards them, her boots kicking up puffs of dust from the dry ground.

"Mr. Scott, Doctor Watson," Candii Ross began, inclining her head politely at each of them. "What brings you out here together?"

John immediately turned his attention away from Sherlock to flash the horsewoman a charming grin. "Just giving Billy here a hand. The vaccinations for the colts are all done and I was heading back to my truck when I got sidetracked by watching Billy work with Devil's Blaze." John tilted his head to indicate Sherlock with a nod. "I recognized him and didn't figure he should be lifting heavy water buckets with an injured wrist, so I offered to help."

"You know each other?" Candii asked with a raised eyebrow and a particularly intent look at Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson was kind enough to offer his assistance when I injured myself at the fairgrounds a few weeks ago," Sherlock explained, returning her raised eyebrow with one of his own. "He was also able to offer some insights about Blaze's behavior when he was treating him."

"Ah," Candii replied shortly. She jerked her chin up to indicate the stallion in the pen. "Speaking of Blaze, how's he doin'? What's your professional opinion?"

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. "Physically he looks fantastic," John answered with a shrug. "I watched his gait when he was running around the pen and there's no trace of lameness, which is good." John licked his lips. "The inflammation hasn't returned to his eyes, which is another good sign. His respiration also looked good, but that's from a purely visual exam. I really can't tell you more without actually examining him." John turned to look up at Sherlock, his expression inviting. 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to observe the stallion. Devil's Blaze looked calm enough on the surface—no foot stamping or rearing—but he kept raising his head to scent the air, his ears flicking back and forth in agitation. Sherlock turned back with a grimace. "To answer your question, Ms. Ross, progress continues to be slow. I still haven't been able to touch him, though he did let us hose him down. I spent an almost an hour in the round pen with him and he spent the entire time either running around the perimeter or threatening to charge me." Sherlock flexed his fingers, fighting the urge to take out a cigarette. "I'm continuing to observe him. His body language continues to alternate between terrified and vicious without any action on my part."

"Well shit." Candii muttered, drumming the fingers of her left hand against her thigh in agitation. "No chance that he'll be competition-worthy in the next few weeks?"

"That would be both tremendously ambitious and unlikely."

"God damnit. He's supposed to be included in the lineup for an event in Reno next month." Candii Ross blew out an annoyed breath and pulled her phone out of its holster. "Billy, keep me updated. You too, Doc. I need to make some calls."

Sherlock and John watched Candii stride away, talking quickly on her mobile, her hair bouncing angrily with the force of her strides. Bonnie barked once and chased after her, tail wagging happily.

"Charming woman," Sherlock remarked in a sotto voice.

John huffed and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "Stop that…that's no way to talk about my client…yours either, since she hired you to work with her horse."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust at John's insistence on manners. "Technically Devil's Blaze is my client. Ms. Ross is merely responsible for payment."

"You really think so?" John asked, tilting his head and giving Sherlock a puzzled look.

Sherlock returned his puzzled look. "Of course. I spend most of my time communicating and working with the equine, not humans. Granted, sometimes the human has to be retaught since it's the human, not the horse, who has the problem."

John nodded. "Yeah...I can see that." He shoved his hands into his pockets and tipped his head at Sherlock's wrist. "You should probably wrap that again, if you're done working with Devil for the time being."

"I don't need you to coddle me, John," Sherlock snapped. "I'm hardly an idiot."

John raised both eyebrows and have Sherlock a frankly skeptical look. "Considering that I just saw you voluntarily climb into a pen with a lethal animal—without backup, I'll add—I'd say that point's debatable." 

Sherlock sneered and went to pick up his discarded safety vest, helmet and training stick, intending to put them away in the tack barn. To his surprise, John followed him, his hands tucked into his pockets. Their boots crunching softly against the dried grass and dirt as they walked, setting into an easy synchronism. It was surprisingly pleasant. Sherlock cast about for some sort of conversational topic as they walked, something to get the vet talking again. Fortunately, John beat him to it.

"Is that a taser in your pocket?"

Sherlock paused in mid-step, turning to give John a raised eyebrow. "Is that a legitimate question, or a terrible attempt at innuendo?"

John coughed and flushed. "Ah, legitimate question."

"Technically, it's a stun gun, but yes."

"Why?"

"It's for my protection."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be stupid, John. I'm facing off against a one-and-a-half-ton animal that has killed a man. I'd be a moron not to take precautions."

"True. Have you ever had to use it?"

"On occasion yes, but I don't enjoy it. It's a tool of last resort," Sherlock said brusquely, signaling an end to the conversation as he shoved open the barn door and strode towards the tack room located at the end of the barn. He shoved that door open as well, earning a squeak from Molly who was inside, hanging up her saddle. 

"Oh, Billy, hi!" Molly stammered, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid back behind on ear. "Oh, and you too, Doctor Watson. Hello."

"Ms. Hooper," John replied, tipping his hat politely. "How's Toby?" 

"Oh, he's good. We just got back from working on a bit of dressage."

"Any problems with swelling on his left Annular ligament?"

Molly shook her head. "No. Not at all. I'm going to keep an eye on it, but I think that poultice you prescribed did the trick."

"Good." John rocked back on his heels and blew out a breath. "That's very good."

John and Molly spent a few more minutes exchanging pleasantries while Sherlock busied himself with hanging up his gear. The routine was soothing. Wipe the sweat and dust off his helmet and vest, examine them for rips or other damage, then hang them up in his allotted cubby. The stun gun went in the same cubby, as did the training stick. After double checking everything, Sherlock closed the door and spun the combination lock closed. The security measures likely wouldn't stop anybody seriously determined to break in, but they were certainly sufficient to prevent opportunistic theft. He returned just in time to hear Molly offer John a beverage.

John shook his head, declining politely. "I appreciate the offer, Ms. Hooper, but I actually need to get going. I'm hoping to catch Doctor Sterndale before he leaves his clinic for the day...assuming he's even willing to talk to me."

"Well, good luck with that," Molly replied with an encouraging smile as she hefted a bucket full of grain. "I'm going to go give this to Toby. See you later!" 

"What did you want to talk to Sterndale about?" Sherlock asked, watching John watch Molly walk away, an appreciative expression on his face. 

"Hmmmm?" John asked, shaking his head and blinking, before turning to look at Sherlock. "What was that?" 

"I asked you what you wanted to discuss with Doctor Sterndale," Sherlock repeated impatiently, rolling his eyes in clear disgust at John's fascination with Molly Hooper's anatomy. 

"Oh, just something weird going on with some cattle I noticed," John replied, apparently not the slightest bit embarrassed to have been caught ogling.

"Why Sterndale?"

John shrugged. "He's a specialist and I'm more of a generalist. I'm hoping he'll recognize the symptoms, maybe make a diagnosis I can use." 

"What sort of symptoms?" Sherlock demanded, his curiosity piqued.

"They're all over the place. Eye inflammation, increased aggression…it's almost like a bunch of different cattle got accidently poisoned by Jimson weed or Woolly locoweed, but I checked the pastures myself and didn't find anything."

"Do you mind if I join you?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head and meeting John's eyes as he deliberately licked his lips. It wasn't a blatant gesture, just a quick flash of tongue wetting his top lip, but there was no mistaking the way John followed the motion. Excellent. While he had no interest in cattle or their care, he was very interested in observing the body language and interactions between the two vets. The trip could also possibly yield some insights as to whether Doctor Sterndale's misdiagnosis was intentional or merely idiotic. 

John blinked, his pupils dilating noticeably as he mirrored Sherlock's lip-licking motion. "Um, not at all. Why?"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder elegantly. "According to Ms. Ross, Doctor Sterndale treated Devil's Blaze for years; I was hoping to interview him for some possible insights...triggers, allergic reactions, those sorts of things."

"That makes sense," John replied, nodding his head slowly. "Err...are you sure Ms. Ross won't mind?"

"Not at all," Sherlock replied. "Her orders are for me to do everything I can to get Blaze working again. I doubt she'll even notice I'm gone." He wasn't concerned about missing dinner. He'd managed to commandeer another box of tea from Juana's kitchen to replace the inferior Lipton tripe he had been drinking. 

John smiled and glanced down at his watch. "Let's go then. Sterndale's clinic is about thirty minutes away, depending on the traffic." 

Sherlock bit his tongue, suppressing the urge to demand an explanation for the American tendency to use measure distance in time, rather than geographic terms. It was not something a 'real' American, particularly one supposedly from rural Montana, would ask. Instead, he smiled and followed John to his truck, their footsteps once again falling into an easy synchronization. 

John had opted to park around the back of the barns, rather than up front in the circular driveway. A practical decision; it meant he had less distance to travel with his supplies. The parking spot also offered a view of the quarantine barn and the round pen, which explained why John Watson had seen him. 

"Would you like a bottle of water?" John asked, halting before his Humvee and opening the tailgate.

"Please," Sherlock replied, his mouth suddenly unaccountably dry as he watched John bend over and reach into truck bed. Apparently the cooler had slid forward, requiring John to stretch out in order to grab it. The motion made the cotton of his shirt ruck up and Sherlock found himself wondering if he was going to catch a glimpse of bare skin. Annoyed with the unexpected tangent his thought process had taken, Sherlock shook his head sharply, as if the physical motion could restart his mental hard drive. When John straightened up, Sherlock forced himself to look away and concentrate on something else. 

"Here," John said cheerfully, tossing Sherlock one of the two chilled bottles with an easy, underhanded motion. 

Sherlock caught it without looking, his attention focused on watching the distant form of Devil's Blaze. The stallion was standing in the shade cast by the cottonwood, swishing his tail slowly in the hot air to drive away the ever-present annoyance of flies. The horse's head was up, but at a height that indicated instinctive wariness, rather than acute distress. 

John turned and glanced over his shoulder to see what Sherlock was staring at, his chin tilting downward as he caught sight of Devil's Blaze. John's expression as he watched the stallion was calculating, but the slight downward tilt of his eyebrows and the sympathetic twist in his lips conveyed compassion, rather than pure clinical assessment. After a moment, John turned back to Sherlock and gave him a firm nod. "I watched you working with him. You'll solve it," John said confidently. "I know you will."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied as he cracked the lid of the water bottle open, not caring if his answer made him sound egotistical. There was a reason he was the only Consulting Equestrian Expert in the world. He took a sip and sighed in pleasure. The water was refreshingly cool against his parched throat, reminding him abruptly that he'd allowed himself to become uncomfortably dehydrated in the unfamiliar Texas heat. Sherlock took another longer drink, then ran the chilled bottle against the back of his neck. He could feel the heat radiating from his skin, evidence of a sunburn, despite the high collar of his shirt and the waterproof sun protection he'd slathered on earlier. Lovely. With a grimace, Sherlock pulled the passenger door open and climbed inside. The inside of the cab was hot, but at least it was shaded. 

John climbed in a moment later, dropping his own bottle of water into the cup holder beside him. He spent a few seconds fiddling with his safety belt before turning the ignition and carefully backing out of his parking spot. He had to stop several times when employees and in one instance, a jackrabbit crossed behind him. Eventually, however, John put the Humvee back in gear and they began the long trek to the highway.

Sherlock, meanwhile, took advantage of John's preoccupation to lean back in his seat. His gaze flicked over the vet, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the slightly chapped lips and the worried thumbnail on his left hand. There was also a coffee stain on the left thigh of John's jeans, barely visible from Sherlock's current vantage point, but present nonetheless. Taken together, the signs were unmistakable indicators of stress and several late nights. A guilty conscience, or simple sleep deprivation due to work? 

"So…" John began, pulling Sherlock out of his silent contemplation. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove, a little nervous tic that Sherlock found absurdly captivating. "I...really didn't get a chance to ask you at the fairgrounds the other day...you're working with Devil's Blaze...I...think you mentioned something about being a speciality horse trainer therapist type?" 

"An equine rehabilitation expert. Yes, that's correct," Sherlock replied, privately impressed that John remembered so many details from their first meeting. 

"How long?" At Sherlock puzzled look, John shrugged. "I mean, did you grow up around horses? Did you see one get abused? Is that...how you got your start?"

"You could say that," Sherlock said slowly, deciding how much to reveal about his real life and how much to embellish for the sake of his current persona. "Not the abuse, per se, but certainly growing up around them. My mother loves horses...she put me in the saddle almost before I could walk." _True_. "She was the one who realized I had a gift and encouraged me to become a professional trainer." _A lie_. It had been his old friend, the blacksmith-cum-farrier who had noted his proficiency for equine body language and had suggested the career to the young boy. Mummy hadn't been interested in seeing him become anything except an Olympic competitor. Sherlock mentally shook himself, returning his focus to the matter at hand. "Growing up, I saw the different ways that trainers 'broke' horses and decided that I wanted to study natural horsemanship instead." _Truth_. Long before the colloquial term 'horse whispering' had become ingrained in popular culture, classical dressage practitioners such as Antoine de Pluvinel and François Robichon de La Guérinière had advocated gentle training techniques over brute force. Sherlock paused to take another sip of his water. "From there, branching out and becoming an equine rehabilitation therapist seemed like a natural secondary occupation." An incomplete truth: his interest in equine behavior stemmed primarily from his interest in the criminal aspects of back-room chemistry, horse doping, crime and bringing criminals to justice.

"Equine rehabilitation therapist?" John parroted, a puzzled expression on his face. "Not a horse whisperer?"

"That's an imprecise term, John," Sherlock complained. "I'm hardly whispering to the horses; I'm using my extensive experience in equine psychology and body language to teach or retrain them...though sometimes that involves teaching the human as well." 

John giggled again, a surprisingly boyish sound as he nodded in commiseration. "I know that feeling," he told Sherlock, prompting a smile from the other man. He paused to change lanes, easily passing a slow-moving trailer piled high with hay bales. "Go on," John invited, licking his lips and tilting his chin up encouragingly. "Tell me about your weirdest case." 

"Doesn't telling you about my confidential case files violate some sort of professional code of ethics?" Sherlock asked, shifting slightly in his seat. The console separating the two seats was too broad for him to 'accidently' bump John's thigh with his own knee, so he settled for conveying guarded interest with the angle of his shoulders.

"Not if you don't share specific names or details that could allow me to identify the individual," John replied immediately, turning his head long enough to give Sherlock a conspiratorial grin. "We vets swap weird case stories all the time. Of course...if you'd rather not..."

"I didn't say that," Sherlock said, shifting again. He purposely bit his bottom lip, noting John's reflexive swallow with private satisfaction. "Just...if I tell one, you have to too."

"Fair enough," John agreed immediately.

"Funny or unusual?"

"Funny."

Sherlock pursed his lips, the fingers of his left hand idly tapping out the first part of the violin solo from Mendelssohn's _Concerto in E Minor O P. 64_ as he flipped through the countless case files he'd archived in his mind palace before settling on one that Mrs. Hudson had found particularly entertaining. "Are you aware of the common fallacy of humans anthropomorphizing their equines?" 

"What, like 'my horse is lazy' or 'my horse laughed at me when I fell off?" At Sherlock's nod, John shrugged and shifted his hands on the steering wheel. "I don't know a single large animal vet that isn't," John said honestly. “Hell, my sister complains that the one and only time she tried to ride bareback the horse laughed at her when she fell off.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled, the skin of his eyes crinkling with the motion. "Well, a few years ago, I was contacted by somebody wanting to know if I could provide therapy for two of her horses because they were in an abusive relationship."

John frowned. Sherlock found himself unreasonably entranced by the wrinkles that furrowed across John's forehead as the vet visibly parsed Sherlock's words. "Wait…," John said slowly, clearly reviewing Sherlock’s statement and finding the wording odd. "Were the horses were being abused by a human or were they abusing each other?" 

"The horses were abusing each other," Sherlock clarified.

John pursed his lips, then tilted his head sideways as he looked at Sherlock, confusion still evident on his features. "Was it a case of two mares determining which was dominant?"

"Better," Sherlock said dryly. "She turned a gelding and a mare out together in a pasture and left them unsupervised."

"Well that's just stupid," John said bluntly. "Why the hell would she do that?"

"Because of 'true love,'" Sherlock sneered. John's eyebrows rose and Sherlock hastened to continue his story. "She had just remarried and she and her new husband, in the interest of financial frugality, decided to pasture the horses together. Their reasoning was because 'their prayers had finally been answered' or some other such twaddle resulting in them finding 'true love' naturally their horses would fall in love also." 

"Well, you can't blame her or her husband for wanting the horses to be happy," John pointed out with a shrug. "Or for wanting to save a bit of money. Horses are herd animals...they need company. Besides, sometimes a mare and a gelding can be turned out successfully." 

"Sometimes, yes," Sherlock admitted, "but it isn't common, and almost certainly shouldn't be attempted with a young mare and a older horse that was gelded late in life."

John winced. "Oh Jesus. What happened?"

"The client insisted that the gelding loved the mare and had accepted her as his wife which is why he kept trying to mate with her. He was trying to follow the religious mandate to 'go forth and multiply—"

"Kind of hard to do with no balls," John quipped, pulling his bottle of water out of his cupholder and unscrewing the cap one handed before taking a swig.

"—and the mare was being cruel and denying him his conjugal rights," Sherlock concluded ignoring the interruption, only to narrowly avoid being sprayed with water as John swerved and abruptly aspirated his drink. "Watch it, you idiot!" 

"Sorry, sorry," John coughed, eyes watering as he steered the Humvee off of the narrow shoulder and back into its proper lane. Fortunately for them, the patch of roadway they were on was empty of other vehicles. "Did you seriously just say conjugal rights?" 

"I did," Sherlock replied primly, flicking at an imaginary drop of water on his arm.

"Sorry 'bout that. What the hell did you say to her?"

"Once I finished blinking?"

"Yes!"

"First, I informed her that regardless of whatever religiously-motivated text she and her husband subscribed to, equines could not read, and thus it was wasted on them. Then I gave her a brief and scathing verbal lesson in proper turnout methodology. I explained that mares and geldings are seldom put together in a pasture because of the very real risk that the gelding could injure the mare by trying to mate with her. I also explained that the mare baring her teeth, kicking the gelding in the chest when he approached and watching him with her ears pinned back were horse-speak for 'I'm the boss' and 'back off!' rather than a domestic spat. I told them that for the continued safety of her horses, she and her husband should look at separating them." 

John shook his head slowly. "Just...wow. I think that, right there, tops anything I might have."

"Surely not," Sherlock rumbled, tiling his head and giving John an inviting look from underneath his lashes. "You've been abroad...you must have had some adventures...your friend, Mike Stamford, mentioned something about you tripping over a dik-dik?" 

"Now THAT was not my fault."

"What is a dik-dik anyway? The name sounds incredibly suggestive."

John wrinkled his nose. "Only if you live in the gutter. It's a species of miniature antelope. Maybe about sixteen inches tall at the shoulder." John dropped his water bottle back in the container and held his empty hand above the seat to demonstrate. "They're native to Eastern and Southern Africa. They're actually pretty cute, under the right circumstances."

"So what happened?" Sherlock demanded, leaning forward.

John flushed and mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said I'd gone into the grass to go take a leak, and ended up picking a spot where a baby was hiding...it decided to make a run for it while I was um...pissing."

Sherlock tilted his head. "However did Mike Stamford find out?"

If possible, John's face turned even redder. "He's the one that got to pick the broken thorns out of my ass."

"Why?"

"You'd probably scream and fall over backwards too if a deer suddenly exploded from between your legs."

"I assume you mean explosion in the metaphorical sense, rather than the literal sense," Sherlock said dryly.

"Dick," John laughed. "You know what I mean." John smiled as Sherlock conceded his point with a graceful nod of his head. "So come on then," John prodded. "It's your turn again. What was an especially rewarding case you had?"

Sherlock pursed his lips as he considered previous clients, dismissing several stories on the spot. He needed something to establish empathy...something that would appeal to John's compassionate nature (assuming that John really was innocent and not simply pretending to be a qualified veterinarian while secretly committing serious medical malpractice in pursuit of personal financial gain). The case involving the missing three Quarter Horses was out; it was dull, as was the one about Beryl Coronet. Who cared if somebody took the blame for somebody else's actions because of love? Finally he began relating the story of a client who'd contacted him when a previously well-behaved mare had begun balking and shying when out on trail rides. John had listened quietly for the first part, only to interrupt when Sherlock got to the part where he'd managed to deduce the mare was going blind. 

"You got all that just from seeing how she sniffed the air?"

"Well, from the initial phone call, actually. Seeing the mare in person simply confirmed my deductions."

"That's fantastic!"

Sherlock tipped his head, not quite certain if John was being serious, or merely taking the piss, the way so many others had. "You...do realize you're saying that aloud?"

John unexpectedly flushed. "Sorry, you must get that a lot. I'll shut up."

"No," Sherlock said slowly as he carefully studied John's features. Somehow, unbelievably, the vet's praise was genuine. "It's...fine."

John ducked his head, biting his lower lip, and then raising his chin to catch Sherlock's gaze again. "Good."

There was a comfortable lull in the conversation. John concentrated on the road in front of them while Sherlock divided his attention between the passing landscape and sneaking glances at the vet. Eventually, John took an exit that resembled every other exit they'd passed, and a few minutes later, they were pulling up in front of Doctor Sterndale's clinic.

~*~


	9. Experts and Egos

~*~

Sterndale's clinic was an impressive structure: all sandstone and tinted glass with a peaked roof made out of black painted steel. A clerestory on the south side brought in natural light, while a large overhang shaded the double doors and walkway, protecting visitors from the sun and rain both. Elaborate flower beds filled with different sized rocks, desert succulents and several different types of cacti edged the building’s perimeter. The driveway curved around the front of the clinic, creating a large semicircle of earth that had also been landscaped. In the center was an enormous statue of a bucking bull. Sherlock grimaced in disgust. Even from the passenger seat in John's truck, he could see that the statue was some sort of mass-produced aluminum rubbish, rather than being made out of bronze, or stone. Tasteless and gaudy, especially gilded as it was with gold coloured paint, but it was certainly eyecatching.

John drove past the entrance and parked his Humvee underneath one of the large trees framing the back edges of the car park and both men climbed out, their bootheels thudding solidly against the well-maintained asphalt. John took a covert sniff of his armpits then ducked back into the cab to grab a can of body spray. After giving the can a quick shake, John untucked his shirt and pulled it up to apply a liberal coat of spray to his torso. 

Sherlock swallowed. Hard. John's efforts at freshening up also revealed bronze skin, a muscular six-pack and an intriguing treasure trail of crisp cinnamon coloured hair that ran from the center of his sternum and past his navel in a thin line before broadening and vanishing into his nicely worn jeans. 

"Want some?" John asked, catching Sherlock's eye. He held up the dark blue aerosol can up so Sherlock could see it and waggled it slightly. 

"Are you implying I smell bad?" Sherlock asked archly, one dark eyebrow winging upward, purposely schooling his features to hide the unexpected, and surprisingly annoying surge of lust now surging through his disobedient transport. 

"Sorry, what? No, no, that's not what I meant, just...no," John stammered, a beautiful tide of colour creeping over his throat and cheeks as he shook his head emphatically. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, visibly swallowing. "I just meant...you looked like you wanted me to toss you the deodorant. That's all." 

"I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." John tossed the can back into the truck, followed by his hat. The white doctor's jacket folded over a hanger hooked over a window was studied briefly, but ultimately left alone. Instead, John spent a few minutes fussing with his hair, tucking his shirt back in and brushing the most obvious dust stains from his jeans. He pursed his lips as he gave his appearance a final go-over in the window. Apparently satisfied, he straightened up, raised his chin and gave a short, sharp nod with his head at his reflection. With a quick glance at his watch, John began striding towards the tall, imposing-looking facade.

"So why Sterndale specifically?" Sherlock asked in a sotto voce, his long legs keeping up easily with John's quick stride. When John turned to look at him, Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. "I know you mentioned that Sterndale was a cattle specialist and you wanted to consult him because you're a generalist...but there must be some other reason you aren't seeking out another vet. Especially one that you're...shall we say, not on the best professional terms with?"

John's winced, apparently acknowledging Sherlock's point, before his expression changed, becoming rueful. "Sterndale got his undergraduate degree in botany; he also did some work on documenting plants toxic to livestock," John explained, licking his lips as he looked sideways to meet Sherlock's curious gaze. "I know it may be a long shot, but if anybody knows about accidental poisoning symptoms, especially for lesser-known plants, it's him."

"Ah, I see," Sherlock replied, falling silent as he added the piece of information to his mental files. Together, they pushed through the heavy glass double doors and stepped into a well-lit lobby. The air conditioning was a bit of a shock after the heat of the outside temperature, but a welcome one all the same. Sherlock found himself breathing in relief at something that was a closer approximation to London spring. He could smell the unmistakable traces of large herbivores underneath the overpowering odour of antiseptic, cleaning chemicals and artificial air fresheners. 

The lobby was empty except for a young girl with cardamom-hued skin and long, wavy hair, sitting behind one of the room's two reception desks, playing some sort of computer game. Sherlock could hear the whistles and chirps coming from where the computer's speakers weren't quite muted. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, taking in the girl's features. Eleven, maybe twelve; clearly too young to be a legitimate employee. No makeup and her hair was pulled back in a simple, low ponytail. She was also extremely modestly dressed in a long-sleeved, pink plaid blouse. Sterndale's daughter, perhaps? Anthea's file had mentioned he had one.

At the sound of their approach, the girl paused her game and turned towards them. "Um...We close at four, you know," she said skeptically, her nose wrinkling as she looked John and Sherlock up and down, edging her chair slightly away from the computer console. 

"I know," John replied, giving her a smile that, to Sherlock's eye managed to look both friendly and respectful, rather than condescending. "I apologize for dropping in unexpectedly after hours, but I need to consult with Doctor Sterndale. My name's John Watson. I'm a fellow vet. Could you please see if he's available? It's fairly important."

"Let me check," the girl said doubtfully as she slid out of her chair, being careful to keep the barrier of the desk between herself and John and Sherlock. When she stood, Sherlock could see that she wore a pair of leggings and cowboy boots under her knee-length denim skirt. "DAD?" Sherlock heard her yell as she scampered down the hall. "There's somebody here to talk to you!"

"Right," John said, clenching and unclenching his hands nervously as he rocked back on his heels. "Let's see how this goes, then."

Sherlock, meanwhile, began to prowl the perimeter of the lobby, seeing what details he could add to the mental file he'd already acquired on Sterndale. The character bio that Anthea had assembled had included information about Doctor Sterndale's degree from Auburn University in some American state. Alaska? Alabama? Something that started with the letter 'A'. Sherlock had deleted the specific state as irrelevant; he could always do a search on his mobile if necessary. Anthea's file had also mentioned Sterndale's experience as a traveling rodeo veterinarian before he'd set up his exclusive practice devoted to caring for high-caliber bulls and horses, but not much more than that. 

Sherlock had done a bit more research about Sterndale after studying the file in depth. He'd been curious over why a man from Zimbabwe would choose to settle in the United States, but a quick glance at the history books had shown that Sterndale's actions were hardly unusual. Many white individuals had fled during and after the civil war that had resulted in Rhodesia being renamed, especially in light of the new policies implemented by Mugabe's government. It was clear, though—based on the building's appearance alone—that whatever wealth or valuables Sterndale might have sacrificed when he emigrated from Zimbabwe, he was clearly doing well for himself now. 

The building's interior was just as impressive as the exterior. The floor was made of green slate tiles, while a gabled ceiling made of aromatic cedar and inset with recessed can lights arched overhead. An enormous granite-topped, hardwood counter and a living wall planted in variegated shades of green defined the receptionist area. A small, but industrial-grade Keurig machine sat at the far end of the counter; close enough that clients could easily secure a complimentary beverage while waiting for the staff to process any paperwork. 

The lobby's decor was heavily influenced by the geography of the region. There were large pots filled with succulents scattered throughout the room. Sage-coloured walls were hung with several sets of mounted bull horns, (some measuring six feet or more, and decorated with elaborately-tooled leatherette centers), and a multitude of framed photographs. Most of the pictures featured bulls in various contorted poses: bucking with their hindquarters almost vertical to the ground, twisting, or leaping in midair, with their powerful bodies outlined by clouds of dust and, in some cases, the flying rider's body, but a handful of other pictures depicted a bearded Doctor Sterndale. He was smiling and shaking hands with various men dressed in the incongruous combination of expensive suits and cowboy hats—almost certainly prominent individuals amongst the rodeo profession if the outfits and backgrounds were any indicator, Sherlock deduced absently as he leaned forward to better study the smiling faces. Several matted and framed thank-you letters also hung on the walls. Sherlock recognized several of the names and businesses as belonging to stock contractors that supplied some of the bigger rodeo events—names he'd encountered during his research. 

Turning away from the walls of fame, Sherlock began to examine the furniture for more information. The groupings of leather chairs were impressive, but the lack of wear on the seats and arms indicated that they were used primarily for decoration, rather than seating. Sterndale's clients didn't spend a great deal of time waiting in the lobby, despite what the coffee machine might imply. Low tables were scattered around the room, all conveniently placed in close proximity to the chairs. Their glass tops held an assortment of different magazines that had been strategically fanned out to show the covers. The majority of them were devoted to bull riding: PSN, ProRodeo Sports News, Spin to Win Rodeo, Pro Bull Rider and several other similar titles. The dates printed on the covers varied. Some were brand new. Others were several years old, but still in good condition, preserved as they were in protective plastic covers. 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to see what John was doing. John had settled into parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze fixed on the hallway that Sterndale's daughter had vanished down. Sherlock could easily read the anticipation thrumming through John's body from the set of his shoulders and the angle of his chin. It was clear that John considered waiting while standing to be the more polite option. Sherlock, however, had no such compunctions. He dropped into one of the leather chairs and crossed his legs, before picking up one the numerous magazines lying on the table beside him and flipping it open, fairly certain of what he would find. 

His suspicion was confirmed on the fifth page. 'Smokin Son returns for another season, thanks to innovative new technique pioneered by Leon Sterndale to remove bone chips'. Sherlock discarded the first magazine and selected another. Inside was an article discussing Sterndale's interest in bull bloodlines and his success in breeding bulls that turned out to be especially aggressive buckers. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he read. During their first face-to-face meeting, Candii Ross had emphasized the fact that she could command the prices she did for her horses because of their performance value. A hard-to-ride animal promised a good show and was thus more valuable. Apparently the same logic applied to bucking bulls. According to the article, a multimillion dollar industry had sprung up around the Professional Bull Rider's Association's demand for aggressive, exciting animals that were worthy of being televised. The average value of a PBR touring bull was over six figures. More than a few of the animals Sterndale had raised and later sold to contractors had gone on to become ranked animals—the most sought-after, (and therefore most valuable) type of bucking bulls. The article's author lamented the fact that at least two different ranked animals that Sterndale's had bred had ended up dying of heart attacks while fairly young, (ages six and eight, respectively), denying other breeders the opportunity to 'add the bloodlines of these magnificent champions to their own stock in hopes of breeding another outstanding symbol of true Western heritage...' Disgusted with the hyperbole, Sherlock dropped magazine back onto the table and picked up another one at random. Like the first two, it also contained an article featuring Sterndale. 

Sherlock was in the midst of reading an effusive article praising Doctor Sterndale's care of a ranking bull named Screwball Time who had returned to competition, 'nastier and more aggressive than ever,' when the sound of boots clicking over stone heralded the vet's arrival in person. 

"I am coming, I am coming," Doctor Sterndale announced unnecessarily as he came down the hallway and stepped into the light. His voice was surprisingly deep and carried the faint, but unmistakable lilt of a native Afrikaans speaker. 

Sherlock pretended to continue reading the magazine, using it as a cover while he quickly deduced the approaching vet from the corner of his eye. Sterndale was tall—perhaps two inches taller than Sherlock—and there was clear evidence of his solid musculature, despite the paunch of his belly. The heeled alligator-skin boots he wore emphasized his height. Sterndale also looked far older than one would expect for a man whose birthdate put him in his mid-forties. His naturally fair skin was heavily tanned and wrinkled, likely due to a lifetime of heavy sun exposure, Sherlock decided, making his ice-blue eyes seem even paler in comparison. Sterndale wore his hair swept back, emphasizing his broad forehead. It was still thick and neatly cut, but the dark strands were heavily streaked with grey, especially at the roots, indicating that the darker colour was mostly artificial. Sterndale's full beard was likewise neatly trimmed and had received the same colour treatment.

_Personal vanity? The sign of a prematurely aged man's efforts to still appear in his prime? Or something else_? Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glanced down at Sterndale's left hand. The vet was wearing an eight millimeter wide wedding band on his third finger; Sherlock could see the platinum's silver gleam. Platinum was durable and didn't tarnish easily, so there was no way to tell if the ring's highly polished condition indicated whether Sterndale still cherished the memory of his late wife, or was simply due to the metal's natural resilience. Sherlock blinked once, directing his attention to Sterndale's clothing. The veterinarian's white lab coat was neatly pressed, as were his tailored brown Ralph Lauren slacks and black cotton Gucci polo. Whatever Sterndale had been doing, it hadn't been working with animals. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, studying Sterndale's stride. He'd expected the ego; the entire building and its different accoutrements served as a veritable shrine to bull riding and Sterndale's qualifications as a performance animal veterinarian, but he hadn't expected ingrained sexism. Perhaps he should have. It was obvious, from the way Sterndale's daughter was dressed, to size and shape of Sterndale's beard. It might also explain why Candii Ross was so quick to fire Sterndale and hire John Watson, once she'd been given a demonstration of John's skills. John might be an oversexed cowboy, but at least he respected women. The way that he'd spoken with Molly Hooper and Candii Ross both was ample evidence of the fact.

"Yes, I can help you?" Catching sight of John, Doctor Sterndale stopped abruptly. "Watson," he said, his tone noticeably colder as he looked down his nose at the shorter man. 

"Doctor Sterndale. Hello," John replied, tipping his hat politely before straightening up in what Sherlock easily recognized as a subconscious effort on John's part to maximize his height as he extended his non-dominant, right hand to Sterndale in friendly gesture. 

Sterndale's lips twitched in a moue of distaste as he gave the proffered limb a perfuctionary shake before releasing it. He didn't quite wipe his hand off on his trousers, but the clench of his fingers made the urge to do so clear. "Why are you here?" Sterndale demanded. "You come into my clinic...You are looking to insult me again?"

John coughed and cleared his throat, flushing uncomfortably. "Right, um, no. Look, I know this is...rather awkward, but I need your expertise regarding some odd cattle symptoms. Do you have a minute?"

"Mmm...perhaps," Doctor Sterndale replied, his voice still rife with suspicion as he glanced from John, to where Sherlock was still pretending to be reading the magazine. Sherlock didn't miss Sterndale's eye-twitch of disapproval as he took in Sherlock's purple and gray striped shirt, slim jeans, plain boots and lack of impressive belt buckle. It was clear where his daughter inherited her mannerisms. 

Sherlock smirked, his expression safely hidden behind the magazine. He recognized the incipient homophobia playing over Sterndale's features. Disappointing to encounter, but hardly a surprise in this part of the country, given the current political clime. His initial plan had actually been to pitch his voice slightly higher and pretend to be a fluttery, vapid idiot while he introduced himself to Sterndale as John's friend, Billy, rather than Candii Ross's trainer, with the specific goal unsettling Sterndale. Mycroft had taught him long ago that annoyed or uncomfortable individuals were far more likely to let key pieces of information slip. But Mycroft had also taught him that ingratiation could also be an effective technique and in this case, mimicking Sterndale's contempt for John Watson and appealing to Sterndale's sexism was more likely to give Sherlock the opening he needed.

"Can I help you, mister...?" Doctor Sterndale said leadingly, one eyebrow raised. 

Sherlock lowered the magazine and met Sterndale's eyes, allowing a faint, superior smirk to shape his lips. "Scott," Sherlock replied, allowing his voice to drop back to its more normal register and emphasizing his consonants so his voice sounded more clipped. He levered himself smoothly to his feet, seamlessly transitioning from the laidback, approachable slump of 'Billy Scott' to something far more aggressive. It was easy enough to mimic the testosterone-laden posturing of men confident in their own importance. He'd seen it displayed by countless so-called peers during his Uni days and the racing industry was no different. 

Sherlock squared his shoulders to make them appear broader and shifted his stance so his legs were spread slightly apart, implying larger-than-average genitalia. The final touch was tilting the angle of his head to convey the appropriate 'good ol' boy' attitude. "Bill Scott, trainer," Sherlock finished introducing himself, projecting smooth confidence. He stepped forward to give Sterndale's hand a firm shake, being careful to squeeze the other man's hand hard enough to convey confidant masculinity, but not crush it, which would have the reverse effect of implying insecurity. "I've heard good things about your work through the grapevine," Sherlock continued, keeping his words deliberately vague. "Nice to meet you."

Up close Sherlock could detect a faint hint of cigarette smoke lingering on Sterndale's shirt. The scent of tobacco was laced with something he couldn't quite identify. It wasn't cloves; it smelled more woodsy, and a little like burning plastic. There was also a faint scent reminiscent of petrichor and earth. Curious, Sherlock snuck a quick glance down at the vet's fingers. The tips of the second and middle fingers were lightly stained with nicotine, as expected, but neither the skin nor the nails were yellowed. The lack of colour indicated that either Sterndale was an occasional smoker, rather than a chain addict, or he used cigarettes with filters. He must have just finished a gasper then, Sherlock decided, since the scent of smoke was fresh, rather than imbued and stale, as was commonly found among heavy smokers. Sherlock could also see faint traces of brown and black ground into the veterinarian's cuticles and calluses, as though he had been digging in the dirt. John had mentioned Sterndale's background botany. If the greenery in the lobby was any indicator, Sterndale likely had numerous plants located throughout the building. The most obvious explanation was that he'd been tending them before his daughter had summoned him forth. 

"Likewise," Sterndale returned Sherlock's handshake with more enthusiasm, clearly interpreting Sherlock's body language, tone and carefully calculated smile as Sherlock had intended. "Bill Scott, you said? Are you new to the area?"

"Yep," Sherlock replied, popping the 'p'.

"Good, good. Welcome to Texas. I try and keep tabs on the local trainers. You never know when you might pick up a new client, or get a referral. What kind of horses do you work with?"

"I got my start with performance cutters and barrel racers growing up on a ranch up north," Sherlock lied, easily spinning a story using the rodeo terminology he'd laboriously memorized. "But nowadays, I mostly work with racehorses." A true statement, if not exactly in the fashion he was implying. 

"Oh?" Sterndale raised an eyebrow. "What brings you to Texas, then? We're a bit far from Kentucky."

Sherlock laughed heartily, as if Sterndale had said something very clever. "Don't I know it. I can't get a decent Mint Julep or moonshine to save my life!" He had Mrs. Hudson to thank for his knowledge of American beverages. 'Green Dragon' was common name for marijuana-infused alcohol. The combination, especially when made with genuine moonshine was impressively flammable, as well as being gratifyingly potent, two features that had proved equally useful when solving the disappearance of Birdy Edwards's four-year-old colt, 'Vermissa Valley Vroom Vroom'. Suppressing a smirk at the memory, Sherlock refocused his attention on the matter at hand. "I'm here as a favour to old friend," Sherlock explained. 'Friend' was an exaggeration, but the statement was still essentially true. It was a better alternative than 'successfully manipulated by my conniving older brother on behalf of one of his clients' at least. "I was asked to take a look at Candii Ross's crazy stallion and see if he could be retrained since two different vets couldn't find anything wrong with him," Sherlock continued easily. "I was hoping maybe you could offer a bit of insight into him, since he was your patient first?"

Sterndale's expression became guarded. "I am not certain how I can help you, Mr. Scott. As I'm sure she made you aware, Candii Ross no longer patronizes my practice."

"Which is a damn shame," Sherlock replied smoothly, purposely channeling Sebastian Wilkes' integrating, condescending tone. It was designed to appeal to Sterndale's sexism and hopefully convey a sense of affinity. _Now to feed Sterndale's ego_. "If I was investing in that caliber of animal, I'd want to keep the best possible vet on call—no offence, Doctor Watson—"

"—none taken," John replied, his tone making it clear that the phrase was uttered out of habitual politeness only.

"—but what can you expect from an emotional, irrational woman, eh?" Sherlock concluded, his tone conveying long suffering exasperation with just a hint of contempt.

Over Sterndale's shoulder Sherlock could see John furrow his brow and open his mouth; clearly prepared to interject. _Wait_ , Sherlock thought at him, wordlessly trying to communicate the importance of John remaining quiet. Miraculously, John shut his mouth, though the furrowed lines between his eyebrows as he glared at Sherlock communicated his displeasure.

As hoped, Sterndale relaxed and his shoulders dropped visibly identifying Sherlock as a kindred spirit. "Emotional, irrational women indeed," Sterndale agreed with a smile, revealing artificially white and even teeth. He looked at Sherlock with a bit more approval. "Let me lock the door and I will visit with you men in my office." Sterndale glanced over to where his daughter was sitting back in front of the computer. "Ayana," he said abruptly. "Decide what we should have for dinner and call it in; we will pick it up before we go home since Vera has asked for the night off."

"Yes, Dad," the girl said quietly. Though her tone was compliant, Sherlock didn't miss the annoyed glare she aimed at her father's back as she pulled open a drawer full of takeaway menus.

Sherlock waited until Sterndale had finished locking the door and then began walking side by side with him down a long hallway while John brought up the rear. Like the lobby, the walls of the hallway were lined with Sterndale's accolades. Sherlock's eyes kept flicking over the names, making mental notes for future research. Sterndale's personal wall of glory spanned a good decade: an impressive accomplishment for a vet that had been practicing for a comparatively short amount of time. "I was reading about your work on bulls," Sherlock commented aloud, tilting his head to indicate the magazine articles and framed photographs of different bulls. "Very impressive. Why bulls, though? Monty made it sound like you were a sport horse specialist." The off-hand remark and leading question had a twofold purpose. The first was to continue establishing a sense of rapport. The second was to start establishing a question-and-answer response pattern, the same way he had with Molly. 

"It is true that when I started my practice, I catered mostly to performance horses. I still treat them, but yes, over the years, I have come to focus more on raising and caring for rank bulls."

"Why?"

"Less travel and it's a bit safer, if you can believe it," Sterndale replied vaguely, ignoring John's snort of disagreement. "I've got a underage daughter that I'm supporting by myself. Who is going to pay the bills if I get hurt and cannot earn an income?"

"Hmmmm..." Sherlock said, noncommittally. John's snort confirmed Sherlock's suspicion that Sterndale was lying, even if the reason for it wasn't clear. While it was possible that Sterndale didn't make house calls, the claim that working in a clinic, rather than in the field was safer was blatantly false. Accidents involving large animals could occur anywhere.

Time to change tactics. 

"Is that one of your bulls?" Sherlock asked suddenly, pointing at a framed print of a tan-coloured beast that had the name 'Buck-N-Grind' printed on a small metal plaque embedded in the picture's frame. The bull in the photograph had large, thick horns that curled around his face much like the highly stylized horns of the Grecian deity, Pan. The tips of the horns had been blunted, but they still looked lethal. The image captured the bull with his hindquarters in midair at the instant that he'd bucked his rider off. The rider could be seen flying backwards, his body twisting in midair, arms and legs flailing dramatically while three frantic-looking rodeo clowns dashed in from the edges. The bleachers in the background were out of focus, but it was clear that they were packed. 

Sterndale looked at the picture and then back at Sherlock, looking taken aback by the ignorance Sherlock had just revealed. "It is. I take it you do not follow bull riding as a sport?"

"Nope, strictly horses," Sherlock replied amiably, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Sterndale shook his head. "Ah. I see. To answer your question, yes Buck-N-Grind was one of mine. He made it among the top one hundred bulls and made quite a few professional bull-riders reassess their career choices in his heyday." 

"Damn," Sherlock said with an impressed whistle. "You must have had quite a bit to talk about with Joe Straker," Sherlock continued, affecting casual innocence. "Word about town was that he was a big bull-ride enthusiast."

"No,” Sterndale replied, his voice suddenly imbibed with an Arctic chill. "We never talked about bulls. It would have been...improper of me to discuss my stock or clients with a known gambler."

Sherlock flicked an eyebrow. There was a story there that went far beyond a simple personality clash. "Ah, right. Sorry. Makes sense. Professional code of ethics and all." Sherlock gave Sterndale a ruefully apologetic smile that he hoped came across as convincing enough to sooth Sterndale's clearly ruffled feathers, and purposely changed the topic. "So, is Buck-N-Grind still competing? Or is he living out his days in a pasture somewhere fathering the next generation of world class bull?" 

"No," Sterndale replied, with a sad shake of his head. "He died of a heart attack some years ago."

"That's a shame. Are heart attacks common among bulls?"

"No; they're not," John piped up from behind them.

Sterndale's paused long enough to shoot a dark look over his shoulder at the interruption. When Sterndale turned back, Sherlock made sure to roll his eyes skyward, conveying annoyance at John's interjection at their semi-private conversation. 

Seeing it, Sterndale's lips curved in the shared smirk of annoyance from somebody butting in where they weren't wanted. "Not especially," he replied, answering Sherlock's question as if John hadn't spoken. "Generally when a bovine dies of a heart condition, it can be traced back to septic pericarditis—often caused by some sort of infection. Such deaths are more commonly associated with feedlot animals and dairy cattle, rather than a pampered athlete. But as it is with any performance animal, tragedies do happen. I am sure you have lost an animal or two to accidents on the race track or during training, have you not, Mr. Scott?"

"I have," Sherlock agreed, purposely omitting the fact that many of those so-called 'accidents' tended to have a human originator. 

"Well there you have it." 

At the end of the hallway, Sterndale opened a door and waved Sherlock and John through into a large corner office, before shutting the door behind himself with an ominous click. The sound brought to mind the misery of countless childhood meetings with school officials regarding his discipline (or lack thereof). Sherlock ignored the brief shiver of trepidation that ran down his spine; he was far more interested in the myriad details he could read in the enormous, rectangular room he'd entered.

Sterndale's office was like Candii Ross's in that evidence of the doctor's wealth was clearly displayed in the choice of furnishings and workmanship. Unlike Candii Ross's office, however, Doctor Sterndale's inner sanctum possessed a significantly more stereotypically masculine feel, down to the gentleman's cigar-room style lounge at one end. There were no expensive paintings, elegant antiques, bowls of potpourri or candles. Instead, pelts, horns, snakeskins and the taxidermied heads of at least two dozen different animals hung on the walls, their hyper-realistic glass eyes making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck prickle. 

He recognized several species from the Texas wildlife guide he'd studied: white-tailed deer, mule deer, a pronghorn antelope, desert bighorn sheep, wild boar, rattlesnakes, and a Micrurus fulvius tener, colloquially known as a Coral snake. The bands of brilliant yellow, red and black circling its body signaled the reptile's toxicity to potential predators. There were also some non-North American game animals present, including an African kongoni, a kudu antelope, a rhinoceros and a Cape buffalo. 

The office's walls had been painted a dark red, a colour unsettlingly reminiscent of old, dried blood. The shade might have been chosen to complement the dark wood of the room's coffered ceiling, trim and floor, but the multiple shades of brown, especially when combined with the dark paint on the walls gave the room an almost cave-like feel, despite the large picture windows along one wall letting in the abundant Texas sunlight. Sterndale's desk was positioned to offer the seated occupant a choice view of the clinic's barns and the surrounding landscape. 

Sherlock sniffed the air. He could detect traces of water, greenery and a faint whiff of something rotten; it was a combination he associated with the smell of the conservatory from his childhood. The scent of organic decay struck an incongruous note amongst the mingled odours of wood polish, leather, old fur and the faintly acidic smell chemicals permeating Sterndale's office, because, contrary to his private expectations, there were no plants present, not even a Devil's Ivy or a Peace Lily. Making a quick mental note of the idiosyncrasy, Sherlock turned to study the rest of the room's furnishings.

The desk and the matching glass-fronted built-ins were all constructed out of heavy dark wood that matched the room's wood trim. Two solid wooden doors were discreetly inset into the built-ins, leading somewhere; perhaps to a private lavatory and a closet. Sterndale certainly seemed the type, Sherlock mused. A pair of leather-upholstered visitor chairs sat in front of the desk; their polished horn legs and arms horrifyingly reminiscent of the hideous cow-horn headboard in Sherlock's cabin back at the Triple C. 

Sterndale's enormous desk was the obvious focal point of the room, but Sherlock found his eye being drawn down to the floor and the large inlaid medallion depicting a bucking bull, sans rider, it contained. The medallion wasn't painted; some skilled artist had created the shadows, highlights and contours of the animal's body using different types of wood cut and cunningly fitted together. Sherlock pursed his lips, mentally calculating the price tag. Two thousand quid, of not more. If possible, Sterndale's tastes were even more expensive than Ross's.

Tucking his hands casually into his pockets, Sherlock cast his gaze back over the room, analyzing the various objects to see what Sterndale placed a high value on. Objects of personal pride or value were excellent topics for facilitating further dialogue and were often locate closer to a room's focal point. His eyes settled on the game trophies lining the walls. 

_Perfect._

"How long have you been hunting?"

"Oh, off and on for the last twenty years," Sterndale replied.

"You take all of these yourself?"

"I did."

The note of pride in Sterndale's voice was unmistakable, but his replies were still frustratingly taciturn. Sherlock glanced sideways to better read the man, wondering what question to ask next. Sterndale's chin was up and his chest was puffed forward with pride. The man's arrogance was evident, and the way he'd shut down John for daring to interrupt made it clear that he enjoyed making other people feel inferior... "So what's that?" Sherlock asked curiously as he indicated the decapitated head of a Cape buffalo that hung on the wall closest to Sterndale's desk. "It doesn't look particularly dangerous." 

Sterndale looked to where Sherlock was pointing, his expression betraying his bemusement. "That, Mr. Scott, is a Cape buffalo."

"A buffalo?" Sherlock allowed his lip to curl with skepticism. "I could see hunting a bear," Sherlock said, tilting his head to indicate the black pelt stretched across one wall. "I could also see hunting a wild boar," he continued, tilting chin to indicate another head, "but aren't buffalo rather slow moving and stupid, compared to, oh...say, a mountain lion?"

Sterndale snorted. "Mr. Scott, I would take a mountain lion over a Cape buffalo any day. Pound for pound, they are probably the most dangerous game animal in the world. In Africa, they are considered one of the 'Big Five'." 

"Really? So you've been to Africa, then?" Sherlock asked, as if he didn't already didn't know.

"I used to live in Rhodesia, well Zimbabwe now," Sterndale eventually replied, his tone not inviting more discussion on the matter. "But that was a long time ago." 

_Interesting._ Sherlock made a mental note of the use of the country's older, British colony name and Sterndale's immediate correction. Was the use of the old name habit, or something else? When the new government had taken power in 1980, the generous social welfare net that had supported many whites had vanished almost overnight, resulting in a mass exodus of the white population. Many of the emigrants had continued to identify themselves as 'Rhodesians' despite their new homes in the United Kingdom, Australia and the U.S., perhaps in mourning for the way things once had been. Had Sterndale been one of them? His file said he'd emigrated from Zimbabwe in 1987, so it was certainly a possibility. 

Either way, Sterndale's recalcitrance made it clear that he would not welcome additional questions. Time to change the subject.

Sherlock tilted his head, adopting an inviting expression. "So which one would win in a fight, if you put a rodeo bull and a Cape buffalo in the same pen?" 

"Oh, the Cape buffalo, easily," Sterndale replied, his voice taking on the tone of an enthusiast. "There is a reason why they are called 'Black Death'. They are extremely aggressive, even compared to the average rodeo bull. They are also much, much bigger. A fully-grown Cape buffalo bull can weigh upwards to nine hundred kilograms, compared the average rodeo bull, which might weigh around eight hundred kilograms, at the largest."

"Hmmm. Has there been any thought to adding their genes to the rodeo bull population to make bucking bulls more aggressive?"

"The way breeders did by introducing Brahman bulls and Brahman crossbreeds to rodeos?" 

At Sherlock's nod, Sterndale laughed and shook his head. "Goodness, Mr. Scott, you really aren't a cattle man, are you?" 

Sherlock forced himself to shrug and smile politely. Even though he was deliberately feigning ignorance, Sterndale's patronizing tone still grated, setting Sherlock's teeth on edge. 

Sterndale gave Sherlock an amused and slightly condescending smile. "You aren't the first person to suggest such a thing, Mr. Scott, but it isn't currently feasible. Cape buffalo belong to the _Syncerus_ genus; they are not cross-fertile with the _Bos_ or domestic cattle genus. Even if an egg is successfully fertilized, any resultant embryos inevitably fail around the eight-cell stage. A far more surefire technique is to combine the genes of registered championship bucking bulls, which is what I do." 

"Ah. I see. One of the articles I skimmed mentioned your success in the field. Lucrative, I take it?" Sherlock asked, waving a hand at the room's expensive furnishings.

"Very much so," Sterndale replied. There was no mistaking the note of smug satisfaction in his voice. "But boasting is considered very gauche, Mr. Scott," he continued, signaling that that particular line of inquiry was also closed. "Now, before we get started, can I offer you some tea to drink?" Sterndale asked, crossing the room to the lounge and the small wet bar it contained. 

From his vantage point, Sherlock could see a china teapot perched on a warming unit sitting on top of the wet-bar's marble-topped counter. Steam was wafting gently from the teapot's spout. Tellingly, Sterndale had not offered a cup of tea to John, something that Sherlock knew to be a shocking breach of good manners. Grand-mère and Mycroft both would be appalled. Sherlock glanced sideways, curious to see how the other vet was reacting. It was clear from John's tight expression that he recognized the gesture for the petty slight it was. 

Sherlock sniffed, his nose wrinkling as he easily identifying the scent of Rooibos. While Rooibos was a popular tea in South Africa, Sherlock didn't care for the either the smell or earthy taste. It reminded him unpleasantly of musty hay. "No," Sherlock replied simply, "but thank you. I'm more of a coffee man." 

"Suit yourself," Sterndale replied, returning the teapot to its proper place and reaching for a spoon and adding honey and cream to his tea with apparent nonchalance.

Satisfied that Sterndale would be occupied for several moments longer, Sherlock crossed the room. From the corner of his eye, he saw John hurriedly pick up a small orange cylindrical container with a white lid that was half-hidden by a picture frame. As Sherlock watched, John read the label, frowned at an oblivious Sterndale's back before placing the container back exactly where he'd found it. John's lips moved, reflecting the silent chain of thoughts no doubt running through his mind. 

_An interesting little display,_ Sherlok noted as he halted in front of the bookcase without giving a sign that he'd observed John's quick, fugitive action. Whatever John had found probably wasn't relevant to the case, but the gesture still seemed suspicious. Making a note to look at the prescription himself, Sherlock bent to examine the contents of the glassed-in bookcases behind Sterndale's desk. 

There were the expected volumes on veterinary medicine and animal anatomy: Smith's 'Large Animal Internal Medicine' sat next to the 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th editon copies of the 'Merck Veterinary Manual'. A copy of Veranus A. Moore's 'The Pathology and Differential Diagnosis of Infectious Diseases of Animals,' first published in 1902 was also present. Other shelves contained multiple editions of different drug handbooks and drug interaction guides. There were also several shelves full of volumes about medicinal and toxic plants; some were printed and bound copies of works published by agricultural universities, spanning multiple states. Others were clearly targeted to a broader audience. 

Sherlock made a note of the different titles. While he hadn't read Ross' 'Medicinal Plants of the World,' it looked promising, as did 'Toxic Plants: Meat & Livestock in Australia'. The last shelf was full of volumes about fungi: the varieties, the history, identification manuals and growing guides. Sherlock raised an eyebrow; it looked rather incongruous next to the rest of the shelves filled with reference information about veterinary medicine. He glanced down, checking for dust. Unfortunately, because of the glass doors, the shelves were all spotless. There was no way to tell which volumes were looked at frequently and which were purely ornamental, like the outdated encyclopedias Candii Ross used to decorate her home. 

"You have an interest in Mycology, Doctor Sterndale?" Sherlock asked aloud as he bent down to study the spine of 'Hallucinogenic and Poisonous Mushrooms: A Field Guide'. The book's spine was cracked from extensive use and several of the pages were dog-eared. 

"What was that?" Sterndale asked, picking up his mug and crossing the room to where Sherlock was standing.

"I asked if you had an interest in mushrooms," Sherlock replied, tapping against the spotless glass with a fingernail. "You seem to have quite a few books collected on the topic."

"Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Scott, not at all," the vet laughed nervously, waving a dismissive hand. "Those books belonged to my late wife." 

"Your late wife?"

"Yes. She was a very sharp _Ikey_ —we met during a class. She was very interested in collecting and harvesting mushrooms and studying their different properties. Particularly edible ones. I have kept her books because I hope to give them to my daughter someday. Her mother used to entertain herself by writing funny notes and observations in the margins of when she was bored. She was always correcting the punctuation of the authors."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, puzzled and slightly suspicious of the amount of detail his simple question invoked, considering how succinct Sterndale's replies had generally been. Before he could comment, however, John jumped in, effectively derailing Sherlock's train of thought. 

"I once dated a girl once that did that. She was really good at math, especially statistics and calc.," John continued. He gave Sherlock a smile, clearly attempting to join the conversation despite the dark look his interruption garnered from Sterndale. "It drove her mad when the math books got the answers wrong, or when the TAs would pass out homework assignments with typos. Eventually she got so frustrated, she started correcting the assignments before she turned them in. The teachers were not amused and they—"

"I imagine not," Sterndale interrupted coolly. "Nobody likes a know-all who shows off." 

John fell silent and blinked rapidly twice, the muscles in his jaw clenching at the unexpected rebuff. Sherlock meanwhile narrowed his eyes, trying to deduce Sterndale's body language. His dislike of John Watson was palpable, far beyond a mere professional clash of opinions. 

There was a moment of tense silence before Sterndale cleared his throat and braced his hip against the corner of his desk signaling a return to business. "But enough about me. You said you had some questions about Devil's Blaze?" 

"I do, yes," Sherlock said slowly, leaning against one of the wooden panels on the bookcase and tucking his thumbs into his front pockets. Sterndale was a good actor, but his attempts at feigning nonchalance were just that: attempts. The lines of tension in his shoulders and spine were easily readable to somebody fluent in nonverbal communication. Guilt? Circumstantial evidence that Sterndale's idiotic misdiagnosis had been anything but accidental? Perhaps his initial theory of Sterndale being bribed to euthanize Devil's Blaze had merit after all. 

But how to confirm it? 

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, considering the best way to subtly interrogate Sterndale without revealing his hand. He needed information that he could pass along to Sally Donovan for further investigation. As tempting as it was to resort to the sledgehammer approach and either drug Sterndale or deliberately antagonize him into accidently making an incriminating remark, neither Donovan nor Mycroft would thank him, especially if it resulted in his findings being inadmissible in a court of law. There was also the small matter of John Watson needing to interview Sterndale about the odd cattle symptoms. If he got them thrown out, John wouldn't get the information he needed...which would probably make him angry at Sherlock.

A possibility that Sherlock found remarkably unappealing. 

No, whatever he did would have to be subtle. The RPM method of rationalization, projection and minimization had potential, but it also ran the risk of showing his hand too soon. Given the size of Sterndale's ego, using the 'contradict me' strategy would probably be the better choice.

"Whenever I agree to look at a horse for retraining," Sherlock began, "I do my best to get as complete a picture as I can first. Unfortunately, I'm having a hard time getting a straight answer out of Candii Ross. She keeps talking about Devil's Blaze as if he was some beloved pet that can do no wrong, rather than a business investment," Sherlock rolled his eyes, his eyebrows rising briefly with the motion even as his lips flattened with disdain. "But I'm sure you're aware of what I'm talking about?"

"I am, yes."

"I thought as much," Sherlock replied, giving Sterndale a commiserating smile. "If you don't mind my asking, how long was Devil's Blaze your patient?"

Sterndale shrugged. "Candii Ross was one of my clients for over ten years. I took care of his dam, Pele, during her pregnancy and I was there when he was foaled." 

"Were there any complications with his birth?"

"No. None."

"Any unusual trauma or diseases he might have experienced recently? Something that might have perhaps caused him to lash out in pain?"

"No."

"I see." Sherlock shifted his stance. "Contrary to Candii Ross's claims of Devil's Blaze being a sweetheart, I've noticed that he seems unusually aggressive for a stallion—and I'm a man who works with some of the most temperamental horses in the business! Has he always been that way?"

"Unfortunately yes," Sterndale replied with a grimace. "Candi Ross's prized hellhorse is one of the most dangerous animals I've ever treated, and I have had more than a few close calls with aggressive broncos over the years." 

"Hellhorse? You think he's demonically influenced?" Sherlock scoffed.

Sterndale gave him a reproving look. "As a man of faith, I can tell you that the Devil indeed takes many forms, but a more accurate secular explanation would be that he is simply a vicious, unpredictable animal." 

Sherlock frowned and tilted his head to one side. From the corner of his eye, he could see John watching the exchange with a frown. "There's...something I'm hesitant to approach Candii Ross about before I have more information. Based on my own experience, horses generally don't tend to act out unless they've been badly handled or abused in some way...and from what I've seen, she doesn't tend to spend a lot of time personally training her stock. She hires others to do it, and she put one man in particular in charge. I'd interview him myself, but unfortunately, he's dead." Sherlock bit his lower lip and met Sterndale's eyes steadily. "What is, or was, rather, you opinion of Joe Straker?"

Sterndale pursed his lips and brought his mug of tea up to take a sip, visibly stalling for time. His eyes flicked sideways at John Watson before returning to meet Sherlock's. "I am hesitant to speak ill of the dead, Mr. Scott," he finally replied. "What have you heard?"

"Only that he worked for Candii Ross for a long time and that the two of you occasionally butted heads."

"We did, yes."

"Why?"

Sterndale reached up and ran his left hand—the one that wasn't holding the mug—over his mouth before dropping it back at his side. "Two reasons," he began, and then paused for a long moment. "One was, as was previously mentioned—his attempt to gain inside information about bulls that he could use when placing his bets. Quite unethical of him."

"Did you ever report him?” John interrupted, his expression troubled. “That’s illegal."

Sterndale snorted. "To what end, Watson? Straker was canny; he made sure only to approach me in private. There was no evidence, and after I made it clear I would not help him, he stopped asking. It hardly seemed worthwhile to invoke the police for a man with a grudge."

"What was the other reason?” Sherlock asked. Straker’s gambling habits were interesting, but hardly relevant to whatever had affected Devil’s Blaze. 

Sterndale touched the back of his neck with his left hand and paused, clearly debating on how to answer Sherlock's question. He licked his lips once, before meeting Sherlock's gaze. "As I said, I dislike speaking ill of the dead, Mr. Scott. To me it seems...unprofessional to slander a business associate...even one that I did not get on with. That being said, just between us, mind, Joe Straker was not nearly as good at his job, or as...reputable as Candii Ross would like you to believe."

"Oh? What do you mean?" Sherlock queried, aware that John's eyes were boring into his skull. The repeated incidences of Sterndale touching his mouth with his hand and the lengthy pauses between speaking statistically indicated the creation of less-than-truthful statements. 

"Let us just say that Straker had a nasty temper. Nor was he especially renowned for his patience," Sterndale replied meaningfully, the inference that Straker wasn't above abusing an animal clear. "I never treated Devil's Blaze for any whip marks or other abuse injuries, but as I'm sure you are unfortunately aware, there are many ways to cause an animal pain that do not leave evidence that can be documented or reported. Straker's actions aside, as I've said before, that horse is as mean as they come. I am not surprised that he finally killed somebody. If Candii Ross were a responsible breeder, she would have culled him years ago, regardless of how much he might be worth as a bronco." 

Sherlock kept his expression neutral, not letting his thought processes show on his face. Rather than contradicting him, Sterndale was going out of his way to confirm Sherlock's vaguely leading questions and misrepresentations, and then going a step further to undermine Straker's reputation with insinuations and hyperbole. He would have to do some more investigation into Sterndale's finances later. It was looking more and more like Sterndale was involved, somehow. "I see," Sherlock replied vaguely, purposely adopting a crestfallen expression. "So you don't think he can be rehabilitated?" 

"I certainly would not be willing to bet my life on it," Sterndale replied firmly, shaking his head from side to side. "All the expensive diagnostic tests in the world mean nothing when an animal can be considered certifiably insane," Sterndale continued, his tone becoming scornful as he slid his gaze meaningfully towards John. "Now that he has killed somebody, the most intelligent, and certainly ethical thing to do would be to destroy him before he kills somebody else, rather than continue throwing good money after bad and, as Americans like to say, 'bilk' a client." 

"Well that's certainly unfortunate." Sherlock glanced sideways at John, curious to see how the other vet was handling the thinly-veiled slur against his medical credentials. John was still standing in parade rest, his hands neatly clasped behind his back, looking for all the world that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As Sherlock watched, though, John blinked once and tilted his head to the side as he stared at Sterndale. He was smiling faintly, but it wasn't the cheerful expression of a man enjoying himself, or laughing at a private joke; it was the teeth-gritted, twisted smile of a furious predator who was simply waiting for the opportunity to strike. Sherlock recognized the expression from seeing Irene in action, just before she verbally (and sometimes physically) eviscerated some hapless fool. 

"Indeed," Sterndale replied brusquely, brushing off John's glare. "Though I am sorry that I do not have better news for you, Mr. Scott." Sterndale glanced down at his watch. "Now, moving on to other matters, you said you needed my expertise regarding some cattle, Watson? I cannot say that I am surprised. What are the symptoms?" He raised his mug and took a sip of the still-steaming liquid. 

John blinked once, his lips thinning even further before he raised his chin, visibly making an effort to shake off the jibe and rein in his temper. "I do, yes. To answer your question, the symptoms are all over the place. Have you had any patients—or heard of any, for that matter—that have been exhibiting eye inflammation or perhaps extremely aggressive behavior?"

Sterndale raised a silent eyebrow, his scorn apparent, even behind the shield of ceramic. John pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing in reaction. "Okay, yes, I know. Stupid question, considering you specialize in rank bulls. I mean, more specifically, have you had complaints of animals that have been acting more aggressive or hyperactive than usual? Or maybe any cases that look like Jimson weed or wooly locoweed poisoning?"

"No," Doctor Sterndale said bluntly, tilting his head and giving John a surprisingly intent look. "Why do you ask?" 

John raised and lowered his shoulders, his frustration clear. "I got a call the other day from a client of mine to stitch up one of her dairy cattle. She insisted the new heifer she purchased from a stock show at the fairgrounds attacked it for no reason. Both cows ended up going through the barb wire fence and got pretty torn up. I noticed that the new heifer's scleras were pretty bloodshot...and she was frothing at the mouth like she'd somehow eaten lupine, or maybe poison hemlock, but I couldn't find any traces in the pen and her owner insisted that all members of the herd had eaten the same thing."

Sterndale's eyes widened for just the barest instant before narrowing again. "Accidents happen," he said dismissively, his expression unimpressed, "and frightened animals drool. Is that all?"

John's brows lowered and his jaw flexed. It was a long moment before he spoke again and when he did, his voice was even more clipped than it already had been. "There...was also an emergency call I answered at the fairgrounds a few weeks ago. A fight broke out between several steers and I ended up having to euthanize two of them—one somehow managed to break his neck. The other got gutted and even if I did somehow manage to sew him up, the peritonitis infection probably would have killed him. And then Sarah Sawyer had to put down somebody's dog after it got trampled by a yearling bull."

"Strange animals being shoved into an overcrowded pen and panicking and fighting as a result is hardly unusual." Sterndale eventually pointed out, his tone making his opinion of John's observations clear. "And dogs often run the risk of being killed when their owners let them run free. Once again, something that is hardly worth consulting me about."

John blinked several times in rapid succession. "Except that the pen wasn't overcrowded," he finally replied, one fist clenching in obvious annoyance at Sterndale's cavalier attitude. "It was a simple stock auction, and the dog in question was an experienced ranch animal. It had been raised around cattle. It knew how to behave. For safety's sake, I ran a post-mortem on the two steers I had to euthanize since they and the rest of the lot were intended for human consumption. I didn't find anything out of the ordinary on the blood tests, but I did notice quite a bit of eye inflammation on them as well. If you could just take a look..." John pulled out a sheaf of folded papers from his back pocket and laid them out on Sterndale's desk. 

With a huff, Sterndale set his half-drunk mug of tea aside and sat down, before reaching into a desk drawer to pull out a pair of bifocals. Doning them, he bent over to study the reports. "I don't suppose you thought to check the liver enzymes while you were doing the blood panels? If they were range-fed steers, it is possible that they could have eaten Threadleaf groundsel any time in the preceding six months as yearlings. It can cause liver cirrhosis up to a year after consumption. While some animals remain quiet in the later poisoning stages, others become extremely agitated. Attacking anything that moves is also of the possible symptoms..." His voice trailed off as he read down the reports.

"I did check that, and yes," John replied with a tight smile, "and to answer your question, the liver enzymes were normal, as was the liver itself. No sign of scar tissue or hardening at all." He pointed out several numbers. "But this is the figure that has me puzzled...look at the adrenaline levels...I've never seen them this high..." 

Sherlock, meanwhile, began to prowl around the room, half-listening to the vets' conversation and occasionally committing potentially relevant pieces of information to his memory as he continued to examine the contents of Sterndale's office. He spared a glance at the prescription bottle label, noted that it wasn't one of the drugs that had been noted for performance enhancement potential and subsequently ignored it. 

He'd already studied the photographs cluttering up one corner of Sterndale's desk before dismissing them as unimportant. Several photos had depicted a much-younger Sterndale with a scraggly-looking mustache and the beginnings of a goatee. His arms had been wrapped around a petite, elfin woman with skin the colour of rich chocolate. 

_Sterndale's late wife_ , Sherlock had easily deduced, observing the matching wedding rings on the couple's entwined hands. The photographs had shown the two standing together in front of various famous landmarks. Stonehenge had been obvious, as had the American mountain with carved politician heads. There had also been several photographs depicting the woman cradling a small infant at a playground, in a garden, in front of a Christmas tree and at a rodeo. Later photographs had omitted the woman, but had shown the same infant through various stages of growth until she was recognizable as the preteen playing computer games in the lobby. There had been a picture of the girl riding a pony, and another of her posing with several other prepubescent girls in matching sparkly pink tutus, their faces almost completely obscured by the enormous rose bouquets they each cradled. Another image had captured the girl eating pizza at some sort of arcade themed restaurant. She had been surrounded by a large group of similarly-aged children. They had all been wearing matching sports jerseys and laughing uproariously. Sterndale was clearly an indulgent single father. Why else would a man gift his preteen daughter with a set of diamond studs and a matching, fourteen karat gold, diamond-studded locket?

There were no photographs of parents, grandparents, siblings or cousins anywhere in the office. Leon Sterndale appeared to be alone in the world, except for his daughter. Unsurprising, Sherlock concluded, considering Sterndale's prior status as a refugee.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders and stepped forward to examine the view from the windows. 

Barns, turned-out livestock and more of Texas' flat landscape and brassy blue sky.

Dull.

Wrinkling his nose in derision, Sherlock turned his attention to the small lounge at the far end of Sterndale's office. The space had been created by adding in two short half-walls painted and trimmed out to match the rest of the room's design. The result was a cozy alcove, outfitted with a large, wall-mounted flat-screen television, the aforementioned wet bar, more leather-upholstered chairs and a selection of trophies. The coffee table was reminiscent of a Victorian curiosities cabinet. The recessed wooden shadow box contained the room's only signs of Sterndale's African roots. 

There was an intricately carved ostrich egg that probably dated from the 19th century and several carved wooden animal figurines. A diploma from the University of Pretoria also lay inside the protective glass case. Sherlock could make out the first few words of the document's Latin header: Hoc University of Pretoria hoc honorat... _The University of Pretoria hereby honors_..., was easy enough to translate, but the rest of the text was frustratingly obscured by the multiple photographs of Sterndale lying on top of the diploma. Sterndale was wearing full doctoral regalia and posing with other, similarly-clad individuals. One of Sherlock's eyebrows rose until it was almost brushing his hairline: _interesting_. 

Anthea's files hadn't mentioned Sterndale having a degree from the renowned South African University, only the American ones. He was about to make a mental note to tweak his brother's assistant about her oversight, when his attention was caught by the gilt on a heavily embossed envelope stamped with the Pretoria University seal. The cream-coloured envelope was mixed in with a stack of other, miscellaneous post lying on the corner of the coffee table, as if the recipient had simply dropped it on the closest surface on hand to deal with later. Sherlock recognized it as the type of post universities generally sent out to solicit money from wealthy donors. They made tolerable projectiles, but were terribly noisome when burned, or so Mrs. Hudson had informed him repeatedly. At great length and volume. 

_A degree honoris causa was the most likely explanation_ , Sherlock decided, and also explained why Anthea hadn't included it. With enough money, it was a fairly straightforward matter for any individual to acquire an honorary doctoral degree without having done a day of the requisite coursework. Certainly Muntz and Dursley—two particularly loathsome former classmates—had benefited from the practice.

Seeing nothing else of interest in the small room, Sherlock straightened up and returned to where the two vets were still involved in a heated conversation. 

"—checked for that too, and no, there wasn't," John snapped. "Besides, all of these owners are careful."

Sterndale shook his head. "I challenge anybody who thinks their range or pasture is completely free of toxic plants. All it takes is a few seeds given time to grow and suddenly half a herd can be suffering from seizures and convulsions."

"But the timing—"

Sterndale raised his eyes skyward. "Watson, surely you are aware that correlation does not equal causation, yes? A dairy heifer, a few feedlot steers at the fairgrounds and a yearling bull all allegedly acting erratic? Pffffff." Sterndale scribbled something on a pad before shoving it to the side in favor of gathering up the reports strewn across his desk and shuffling them into a neat stack which he handed to John with an exasperated expression. "I deal with aggressive animals behaving erratically every day. It is what they are bred for. Knowing how not to panic is part of what separates an experienced vet from an amateur. I see nothing conclusive in the test results you have shown me and as for the claims of temporary eye inflammation...well, that can have many causes and most of them are benign. I think you are searching for patterns that are not there." 

John took the papers quietly, visibly clenching his jaw. 

"I can't help but wonder, Doctor Sterndale," Sherlock asked, his tone carefully pitched to convey the right combination of ignorance and puzzlement, "do any of these plants you've mentioned adversely affect horses?"

"What do you mean?" Sterndale demanded, turning away from John to focus on Sherlock. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I've never seen a case of accidental pasture poisoning—the people that hire me are quite careful about their investments—but I have read enough to know of some of the more common plants to watch for. Isn't red maple the one that causes red blood cells to break down, while yew contains taxine, an alkaloid that causes respiratory and cardiac collapse when consumed?" 

"Yes, that's correct," John confirmed, looking impressed at Sherlock's display of knowledge. "Were there some particular symptoms you were concerned about?"

Ignoring John, Sherlock continued to focus on Sterndale. "I read an article in the papers a while back about some poor girl getting killed by her pasture pony,"—a complete lie, but he wanted to see how Sterndale would respond—"and at the time, I just attributed it to abuse, or poor training...I'm wondering now, though; based on your discussion about cattle acting up and possible poisoning...could the pony have eaten something that made it act more aggressively than normal? Perhaps enough to kill somebody?"

"No," Sterndale replied immediately. "I know of no plants that do that, at least not to the extent that you just described." His gaze slid sideways to John, whose jaw was tightening ominously, obviously prepared to interrupt. "Well, that is not strictly accurate," Sterndale corrected himself grudgingly with another sideways glare at John. "It is true that there are some plants out there that can affect a horse's behavior, but in most cases, symptoms appear rapidly and the horse will die just a few hours of consumption."

"Such as?"

Sterndale tipped his head to one side and shrugged. "There are dozens of possibilities. Field Horsetail can result in a horse becoming abnormally calm. Consumption of Jimson Weed can cause trembling. Mountain Laurel can cause repeated swallowing and profuse salivation. Colic can result in a horse acting out because it is in pain. Both _Astragalus_ and _Oxytropis_ , better known in layman's terms as Locoweed or Crazy weed, can cause horses to act strangely, but there is a world of difference between a horse bobbing its head or staggering when attempting to walk and attacking somebody the way you described. I am something of an expert in the field of pasture toxins. If there was a plant that produced that effect, I would have heard of it."

"Yes, Doctor Watson mentioned your plant expertise," Sherlock replied absently, looking over John's shoulder to peer at some of the papers John was clutching. He was careful to use John's last name and title to imply a distantly professional relationship. The numbers on the page meant nothing to him; bovine physiology was too different. "I'll admit, I was surprised," Sherlock continued, looking up to meet Sterndale's eyes. "I would have thought botany would have been a waste of time for a vet, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Hardly, Mr. Scott," Sterndale replied with a haughty sniff. "Back home, I saw more than a few villagers plunged into destitution when their goat or sheep suddenly died after eating the wrong plant. The problem is here as well. Every year, in America, poisonous plants adversely affect the between three to five percent of the sheep, cattle and horses that graze on them. That figure translates into major economic losses for the livestock industry as a whole."

"Oh? What kind of effects?" Sherlock asked, careful to keep his tone light. If Sterndale was about to impart a key piece of information, the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was frighten him off.

Sterndale waved his hands in a condescending gesture. "For livestock, it can be death, abortion...birth defects, emaciation...decreased production, abnormal aggression. Any number of things."

"Are there any options for treatment?"

"It depends on the plant and the amount ingested. Sometimes simply removing an animal from the source might be enough to facilitate recovery. Fluid therapy, Physostigmine, cholinergic drugs such as neostigmine, supportive therapy, and treatment with sodium Phenobarbital can help in some cases, but those are few and far between." Sterndale gave Sherlock a grim smile. "Generally my recommendation when dealing with a poisoned animal is to cull it and be done with it. That is what a responsible vet would do." 

"Bullshit!" John shouted, abruptly losing his temper, causing both men to focus on him. Ignoring Sherlock, John took a half-step towards Sterndale, his nostrils flaring angrily. "In case you've forgotten, part of being a responsible vet is also involves actually listening to a client and discussing all possible treatment options and potential outcomes."

"I have forgotten nothing. A responsible veterinarian also has a duty to public health," Sterndale shot back, immediately picking up the threads of his and John's previous argument. "In case you have forgotten, a rabid animal is considered a threat to public safety and should be destroyed immediately," Sterndale continued. "Affection is no excuse." 

"Except it turns out that Devil's Blaze wasn't rabid, was he?" John rejoined, blue eyes snapping with fury. "I could tell that just by looking at him. Plus there's the little fact that most domestic horses are routinely vaccinated against rabies. So what was it? You took one look at him, decided you weren't interested in putting yourself in harm's way, and simply decided to cull him and be done with it, regardless of what your client wanted?" 

Sterndale gave him a dark look as he straightened up to his full height. "I strongly resent the implication that I somehow failed in my duties, Watson," he said coldly, looking down his nose at John. "And I am also incredibly insulted that you think my judgment is somehow impaired," he added, jabbing a finger towards John's face. 

"Isn't it?" John asked, his eyes sliding meaningfully to the half-hidden pill container. 

Sterndale followed John's gaze to the little orange canister and his expression darkened even further. "No. It. Is. Not." Each word was clipped, ripe with anger. 

Sherlock glanced between the two veterinarians, watching the interplay with interest. The contrast between the two was fascinating. On the surface, Sterndale appeared confident. His expression was openly contemptuous as he glared at John and his neatly pressed and expensive clothing was in direct contrast to John's worn jeans and slightly rumpled shirt. But Sterndale's tight lips, stiff body language and the nervous twitching of one hand betrayed his inner tension. There was also a very faint sheen of sweat was visible on his forehead, despite the relative chill of the room. Small but unmistakable indicators that Sterndale was almost certainly lying about something else.

John, by contrast, radiated absolute confidence in his opinion and open honesty, despite the anger thrumming through his frame. He faced Sterndale with his chin raised, shoulders squared, and fists clenched. He was balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, clearly prepared to defend his stance—with violence, if necessary. Undoubtedly Candii Ross had seen the same scenario play out several weeks ago when John spoke up to try and save her horse. Sherlock felt a stirring in his groin and swallowed hard at the sudden pang of want. 

No. Unacceptable. He needed to focus on The Work, not John Watson's...considerable assets. 

"All right, all right," Sherlock interrupted abruptly, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture before the two men could come to blows. John and Sterndale both started, clearly having forgotten his presence. "Let's just calm down," Sherlock continued, giving each veterinarian a pacifying smile. "Mistakes happen, yes?"

"Indeed," Sterndale said, drawing himself up haughtily, even as he glared at John. "I am not God. Even I, with all of years of experience, can make a mistake. Vaccines can fail. I have seen it happen before. I made my diagnosis based on the symptoms I observed at the time. I was wrong. _Fortunately_ ," the word was said with a sneer, "Ms. Ross has a new expert to rely on in you Mr. Watson, sorry, _Doctor_ Watson. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a daughter to feed." Sterndale jerked his chin towards the door, making it clear that the statement was an order, not a request. 

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"I understand. Thank you very much for your time, Doctor Sterndale, you've been very helpful," Sherlock finally said, his tone purposely uncomfortable. He extended a hand to Sterndale. "Er, on a matter unrelated to Ross's psycho horse...as I mentioned previously, I do most of my work with performance animals. I may need to speak with you later about a possible out-of-state referral for treating a carpal chip fracture." Not strictly true, but the lie was necessary in case he needed access to Sterndale's private sanctum again. 

"Certainly," Sterndale replied, visibly making an effort to get his temper back under control. "I would be happy to discuss the matter with you at a later time, Mr. Scott, but right now..."

"Of yes, of course." Sherlock gave Sterndale one last affable smile while simultaneously flicking his eyes towards John and back again, wordlessly appearing to apologize for John's outburst. "Good day." 

John simply inclined his head once with the barest possible courtesy before following Sherlock out the door.

~*~


	10. Carnal Logic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves at lovely readers* Hey there! It tickles me to no end to know that there are people enjoying this AU. My thanks to my usual betas, [vulgarweed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed) and [iriswallpaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper) for listening to me babble about plot/missing-word-catching/grammer proofing/snark/"there there" noises when I'm banging my head against the keyboard/being a general voice of reason/making me laugh with their feedback/etc. Thanks also to [galatori](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Galtori/pseuds/Galtori), who also kindly volunteered her services as a pinch beta, (and also came up with the fun coffee shop name). I am so grateful for these amazing people sharing their skills with me. A nod also to the ongoing encouragement and support of the AD crew and to [maxthebd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/maxthebd/pseuds/maxthebd), my smut-writing cheerleader.

~*~

"Well that was tedious," Sherlock complained, letting his voice shift back up to 'Billy Scott's' softer pitch and lilt once they were outside and safely out of earshot. He paused briefly underneath the awning to let John catch up, mind already busily slotting the information he'd gleaned about Sterndale into the appropriate spots in his mental hard drive. "That was one of the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, manipulative and all-round repulsive assholes that I've ever had the misfortune to meet. He should look at being one of those reality show contestants, or perhaps go into politics. He'd fit right in."

Sherlock glanced sideways, fully expecting to see John laugh and agree, his beautiful blue eyes twinkling with shared amusement. Instead, John's lips were clamped together in a thin line and his fists were clenched down at his sides. The heels of his boots thudded across the pavement in a rapid cadence as he brushed past Sherlock and strode towards the place where they'd parked, indignation and fury radiating from his stiff form.

"John?" Sherlock asked, scrambling to catch up, the inflection in his voice making it a question, rather than a statement. "John? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? What's wrong?!? What _the hell_ was that?" John demanded, wheeling around and raising his chin to glare up at Sherlock, his dark blue eyes visibly snapping with anger.

"What was what?"

"All that," John huffed, waving a hand back in the direction of the clinic. "You changing your voice and acting like you couldn't be arsed to give me the time of day. The eye-rolls— _yes_ I saw those, you dick. You insulting a client. You letting Sterndale talk down to you like you're some sort of idiot, rather than a fucking brilliant genius. Why didn't you say anything to correct him?"

Sherlock blinked once in surprise at John's display of anger towards him. Apparently he'd miscalculated slightly in his bid to integrate himself with Sterndale without adequately considering John's observational skills. Idiot. "I was using subterfuge to put Sterndale at ease," Sherlock replied shortly, making a calculated stab at an explanation that might calm John down. It wasn't the full truth, but it wasn't a complete lie either. 

John's head swung from side to side in an aborted motion while his eyebrows moved up and down in annoyed confusion. "Come again?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Sterndale's a sexist idiot, in case you didn't already know, as well as being a homophobic bigot. Before you ask me how I knew that, let me remind you that I read body language for a living. The signs are unmistakable. Sterndale's the type of moron who assumes that any soft-spoken man wearing purple or pink must be automatically gay—regardless of what the individual in question's sexual orientation might actually be—and treat them as social pariahs accordingly. He's also the type to be automatically suspicious of male friendships. I know this; I've dealt with his type before. Since Sterndale's body language made it clear that he was not especially inclined to cooperate with you, and he certainly wasn't going to cooperate with me if he thought I was just a friend, rather than a legitimate equestrian expert, I thought it best to avoid wasting our drive. Based on past experience, the easiest way to put Sterndale at ease so I could interview him effectively was to adopt a hyper-masculine persona for the duration of our interview." 

John sniffed and raised his chin, clearly not mollified by Sherlock's explanation. "Uh huh. Yeah. Sure. And did you actually learn anything valuable while you were being a complete dick?"

"Yes, actually." Sherlock didn't even try to suppress the relish in his tone as his lips curved in a smirk of satisfaction. "Leon Sterndale is a liar."

John's head jerked back, his eyes blinking rapidly as he processed Sherlock's revelation. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, watching the micro expressions flitting across John's expressive face with interest as John's anger and frustration began to give way to curiosity and skepticism. 

"I...see," John said slowly. He frowned, blinked again and tilted his head to study Sherlock's face, his lips twitching in reaction to his thoughts. "No, wait, I don't. What do I see? What do you mean Sterndale was lying?"

"Just what I said," Sherlock huffed, as he began stalking towards the truck again, annoyed at not having his declaration accepted as gospel. "Why? You don't believe me?"

"Well, calling a man a liar is a bit harsh," John replied with an uncomfortable shrug as he hurried to catch up with Sherlock's long, ground-eating strides. "It could just be a case of him making a mistake, though in light of what I saw on his desk, it's pretty obvious he probably shouldn't be practicing medicine anymore." 

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

John licked his lips, then looked away, slightly shamefaced, before meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Er...well, because of the pills."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, wondering what John was getting at. 

Seeing it, John flushed and hurried to explain. "On his desk. I spotted a prescription Donepezil, which is a Cholinesterase inhibitor commonly prescribed for Alzheimer's to help treat memory loss. I recognized it because it's the same stuff the doctors prescribed it to my Gram before she died. Sterndale's misdiagnosis makes a lot more sense in hindsight, considering poor judgement is one of the classic symptoms of Alzheimer's"

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "It's not Alzheimer's."

"What do you mean it isn't Alzheimer's?" John demanded, his face creasing in confusion. "It must be. It's the only explanation that makes sense. Sterndale woke up early, arrived, saw Devil's Blaze, misdiagnosed him, decided he didn't want to risk getting hurt and tried to cover his ass after he realized his mistake. It's the only explanation that makes sense."

"No it's not."

John stopped and folded his arms, looking Sherlock up and down, his skepticism apparent. "Okay then, walk me through it? Why are you certain it isn't Alzheimer's?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, silently debating on how much information to share. It was tempting to unleash the entirety of his deductions, but caution held him back. John Watson was still a suspect: guilty until proven innocent. If John were guilty and Sherlock inadvertently dropped a hint that he was on to John's involvement, then there was a risk, however small, that John might flee before he could be brought to justice. On the other hand, if John were innocent, then his reactions to Sherlock's suspicions could be potentially enlightening. Either way, it was a calculated risk he was willing to take. "Because there is an enormous difference between the common symptoms of Alzheimer's—the inability to remember an important date, giving large sums of money to telemarketers or withdrawing from social activities—and what I observed while interviewing Sterndale," Sherlock finally replied, watching John closely for signs of fear or apprehension. 

"Such as?" 

"For starters, there is the way he confirmed my rather leading statements about Devil's Blaze being abnormally aggressive."

John licked his lips, his brow furrowing as he analyzed Sherlock's argument. "I don't understand."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, suppressing the automatic suggestion that John get it printed on a tee-shirt. He wasn't willing to run the risk of antagonizing his ride to the point of finding himself abandoned in a car park. It was still some distance back to Candii Ross's ranch and cab fare, assuming he could even find one, would be outrageous. "I have it on good authority from quite a few of Ms. Ross's staff that prior to Straker's death, Devil's Blaze was relatively gentle for a stallion. He certainly didn't have a history of being dangerously aggressive. Even Molly Hooper commented on how much of a 'love' Devil's Blaze was."

John gave him a look, his disbelief clear. "Billy, I watched that horse spend a good thirty minutes charging at you. You can't tell me that that's exactly loving behavior."

"No," Sherlock conceded, "but there is a matter of basic equine psychology, John." At John's skeptical look, Sherlock blew out an aggravated sigh. "You're a horseman yourself. Surely you are aware that there is an obvious difference between flight-related aggression, such as a situation where a horse is trapped and feels it has no recourse but to defend itself from a threat, and a horse that purposely attacking somebody to establish dominance, or a stallion seeking to eliminate a rival! At no point have Devil's Blaze's reactions been motivated by anything other than pure, unadulterated panic." It felt strange to be uttering his deductions at maybe a quarter of their usual speed, but doing otherwise risked blowing his cover of a Montana native.

John pursed his lips as, visibly considering Sherlock's words in light of his own experiences. After a moment he looked sideways at Sherlock, his blue eyes still troubled. "So why'd you lie? Why not just ask Sterndale about Blaze's behavior straight out?"

Sherlock snorted as he reached into his back pocket to pull out his pack of Marlboro long filter tips. "I've learned in my years as a trainer that people don't like telling you things…but they love to contradict you," Sherlock explained, thumbing the pack open and shaking a single cigarette free before returning the pack to his back pocket for safekeeping. Squashed was better than gone. "I get more accurate responses when I allow owners to correct me. Clients love to one-up the experts." 

"What do you mean?"

"People love to be 'right'. It's simple human ego, John, and Doctor Sterndale's ego is bigger than most," Sherlock replied, privately pleased for the opportunity to explain to such an attentive audience. "He likes correcting people. Showing people up makes him feel powerful, or do you think that I don't really know the difference between different genuses in Bovini tribe?"

"Right. Okay, fair enough," John conceded. "But what else gave him away?" 

"His description of Candii Ross and the late Joe Straker," Sherlock explained, gesturing with his unlit cigarette they continued to walk. "You work for the woman yourself. You know exactly how far she is willing to go and how much she is willing to spend to protect her reputation and her livelihood. She can afford to hire whatever experts she wants, which, incidentally is why I'm here. Furthermore, Ms. Ross was perfectly willing to pay Doctor Sawyer's clinic for the battery of highly intelligent tests you ordered for Devil's Blaze to rule out the presence of morphine, Diazepam, Cushing's Disease, cancer, vitamin deficiencies, ulcers, colic or pinched nerves that might cause Devil's Blaze to lash out in pain. So, with that in mind, do you really think Candii Ross would continue to employ a trainer if there was a shred of evidence that said person was deliberately harming one of her animals, regardless of the results produced?"

"Um...no?"

"Me either. Ergo, Sterndale is a liar," Sherlock concluded. He got several more steps closer to the truck before he realized that John was no longer walking beside him. Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder. "What's wrong?

John stood in the middle of the carpark, blinking in disbelief. "You got all that from how he answered your questions?"

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, curious to see how John was going to reply. "Why?"

John shook his head slightly, just a quick movement as if he were shaking his thoughts back into gear, his expression shifting to one of admiration as he looked at Sherlock with bright eyes. "That was...amazing," John breathed, his voice infused with warmth and awe. 

Sherlock blinked in surprise. That was the third time John had complimented his rather straightforward observations. His eyes narrowed as he quickly scanned John's face for signs of sarcasm or indicators of an ulterior motive. John's face radiated nothing but sincerity and pride. It reminded Sherlock nothing so much as the encouragement he used to receive as a child from Tom Knisley and, oddly enough Mrs. Hudson. The old blacksmith had been quick to compliment Sherlock on his observations about different gaits and the corresponding horseshoe wear patterns. His landlady-not-your-housekeeper was likewise quite effusive with her praise about him being her clever boy for solving baffling cases...at least when she wasn't scolding him for leaving his boots about for her to trip over, or calling him a clot for borrowing her refrigerator without permission to hold blood and urine samples because they wouldn't fit alongside the horsehead in his own. "Thank you," Sherlock finally said, feeling absurdly pleased by John's flattery.

"You're welcome," John replied with an easy grin, giving Sherlock a companionable bump with his shoulder before politely unlocking the passenger-side door so Sherlock could climb in first.

He did, tucking the unlit Marlboro between his lips for safekeeping before beginning to pat his pockets in a hunt for his lighter. Even Maslow would agree that nicotine outranked seat belts. "Do you have a match, or perhaps a spare Bic?" Sherlock mumbled around the cigarette clenched between his teeth. "I seem to have misplaced my Zippo…Nevermind. I found it." Pulling it free, Sherlock flicked the wheel with his thumb, huffing in annoyance when it took him three tries before he managed to get it a steady flame. 

"Put that out," John ordered as he climbed in the other side, before Sherlock had even lit the end. "Either get out, or wait. You're not smoking in my truck." 

Sherlock ignored him, cupping the end of his cigarette to shield it from the draft as he brought the flickering flame to the end.

"Right. That's it." Frowning his disapproval, John leaned over and plucked the cigarette out of Sherlock's mouth. He made sure to grab the lighter as well, snapping the lid shut with an emphatic click. Ignoring Sherlock's scandalized expression, John tucked the confiscated items into his back pocket before taking his seat and fastening his seat belt. "Shut your mouth, Billy." John said amiably after a moment as he turned the key for the ignition and the well-maintained engine cranked to life. "You look like an indignant otter." 

Glaring, Sherlock did so, before slumping back against his seat and resting the index fingers of his prayer-folded hands against his lower lip. John would pay for that dig. Back pockets were notoriously insecure. John's jeans were gratifyingly fitted, but they weren't so snug when he was standing upright, which meant there was sufficient space for Sherlock to slip his hand down and pick-pocket his belongings back...assuming John actually got out of the truck when he returned Sherlock to the Triple C. If not, well, he'd be fully justified in acquiring something small of John's in exchange for his impounded property. The fact that he perhaps had a secondary ulterior motive was completely irrelevant. 

"So...why do you think he's lying then?" John asked, the question effectively distracting Sherlock from his calculations of hand size versus fabric tautness in comparison to the observed volume of John's gluteal muscles and American trouser sizing. John glanced away from the road long enough to give Sherlock a puzzled look, with eyebrows raised in an expression of earnest confusion.

 _Or a very good facsimile,_ the analytical part of Sherlock's mind whispered, abruptly shifting Sherlock's focus from John's denim-clad arse to the Work. 

"Do you...think he's being blackmailed?" John continued, apparently heedless of Sherlock's sudden, intense, scrutiny. "Maybe he's got some sort of money trouble, or I dunno...maybe he just doesn't want to bother with horses anymore?" 

_Blackmail is possible, though bribery is more probable. Interesting that John would mention blackmail and money as a reason..._ What was clear was the fact that—for whatever reason—Sterndale wanted Devil's Blaze dead, but telling John was a risk that he couldn't afford until he had more information. "I have no idea," Sherlock replied aloud, keeping his tone purposely vague. "I'm a rehabilitation expert, not a detective. That's a matter for the police." His phone's text alert chimed, providing a timely distraction from the questions he could see brewing on John's expressive features. Giving John an apologetic smile, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled his mobile free, simultaneously flicking his thumb across the screen to unlock and read the latest missive. 

It was from Donovan.

_FYI: hv intvw sched. Fri. w/ B. Tregennis/AZPD @ 9 re Flagstaff._

_For your information, I have an interview scheduled on Friday with Brenda Tregennis per my connection with the Arizona Police Department at 9:00 a.m. regarding Flagstaff,_ Sherlock translated, easily decoding Donovan's text shorthand. It was a trivial effort for somebody who had memorized both Gregg and Pitman shorthand styles, as well as the Roman _Notae Tironianae_ before the age of nine. Narrowing his eyes in thought, Sherlock opened a browser to look at a the relative geographic distances between the two cities and quickly fired off a reciprocal text.

 _In person? SH_

_No. Skype._

Sherlock nodded silently to himself. A virtual interview would be less useful than visiting the witness in her home, but it was a logical compromise, considering that it was approximately a nine hour drive from Amarillo, Texas to Flagstaff, Arizona, if one calculated the distance to be traversed by the average legal velocity permitted on American motorways. Bloody Americans, their oversized country and their need to sprawl every which direction. It was almost as bad as being back in Africa. A 9:00 a.m. appointment would be something of a challenge, but he could make it work. 

_Expect me. SH_

Sherlock tapped his mobile against his bottom lip, frowning in concentration as he pondered Sterndale's possible motivations. John's theories of blackmail aside, money remained the most obvious solution. Greed was a surprisingly common motivator for any number of crimes. Revenge was another, as the particularly unpleasant case of Sir Eustace Brackenstall had demonstrated. The disgusting excuse for a human had poured petroleum over his ex-wife's prizewinning hunter in revenge for her divorcing him and then lit it, burning the unfortunate animal to death. 

The question was what to do with the knowledge? 

As much as Sherlock enjoyed keeping information close to his chest until he could make a big reveal back home, here, in the U.S., his resources were more limited. He needed help. While Donovan might begrudge his presence, the fact that she was including him in her interviews was indicative of her commitment to working with him. Informing her of his suspicions would be a reciprocal courtesy. Still frowning, Sherlock fired off a quick text to Donovan, letting her know what he'd learned and directing an avenue for research.

_If Sterndale tax returns show 'gifts,' add Sterndale to your pool of suspects. SH_

A moment later, his phone chimed.

_Wht? Y?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust. Investigations would move so much quicker if the authorities took his word as gospel, rather than demanding tedious explanations. He quickly composed a reply to Donovan and hit 'send'.

_Your theories regarding attempted equine murder may have merit. SH_

Sherlock fidgeted slightly, the fingers of his left hand tapping out excerpts Bruch's Concerto No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 26 to pass the time. The slightly frenetic fingering of the last movement reflected his impatience perfectly. He missed his violin; playing brought focus when he was trying to think, making muddled solutions clearer, but he wasn't willing to risk his beloved Guarneri at the hands of incompetent security screeners, subject it to jostling and knocks in an overcrowded bin or leave it out for random strangers to touch in the name of 'tidying'. Even Mrs. Hudson, with her blatant disregard for the sanctity of Sherlock's experiments, knew better than to move Sherlock's pride and joy.

The sound of his text alert going off brought him back and Sherlock pulled his mobile free eagerly to read Donovan's reply. 

_Dnt ndrstnd. Wt hpnd?_

Which was followed almost immediately by a second. 

_Scrtch tht. Wt the hell did u do?!_

Sherlock huffed in exasperation. Authorities were so tedious. They never seemed to appreciate the lengths he went to to interview suspects, effectively doing their job for them.

_Sterndale clearly wants Devil's Blaze dead. SH_

There was a longer pause this time before Donovan responded; her answer was curt and to the point. 

_We need 2 tlk Holmes._

"That's eleven texts you've either sent or received in the last ten minutes," John said suddenly.

"Mmmmm," Sherlock hummed distractedly, his fingers already tapping out a reply.

"You keep frowning...Something important?" John asked curiously.

"You could say that."

John pursed his lips, causing a three small, vertical wrinkles to appear on his forehead. "A message from your girlfriend, then?"

Sherlock blinked, momentarily thrown by the idea of dating Sally Donovan. _Ugh, no_. Being forced to work with her was aggravating enough, and thus far, she'd proven to be one of the more intelligent authorities he'd been forced to work with. "Girlfriend? No…" Sherlock replied absently, as he read Donovan's reply, huffing slightly in aggravation, before slipping his mobile back into his pocket. He'd reply later. "I'm not currently involved with anybody." 

"Good," John breathed out, his grip tightening fractionally on the steering wheel. "That's good then."

Sherlock looked sideways, his interest caught by John's sigh of relief. "Is it?"

John flushed, apparently realizing that he'd been overheard. He licked his lips and jerked his chin up once before glancing sideways to meet Sherlock's puzzled gaze. "Yes. It's fine. I mean, if you're happy being single, that's fine. But if you're interested in dating, that's fine too." John licked his lips again, his tongue leaving a faint sheen of moisture behind.

_Nervous tic,_ Sherlock's mind supplied helpfully, even as he began calculating the amount of medicated lip balm that John must use every day to prevent chapping from excessive licking. Sherlock blinked once, as if the gesture would reboot his mental hard drive. No. The case. He should be focusing on ways to investigate Sterndale's financial history, not thinking about John Watson's lips and how they might feel against his own. Sherlock glanced down at his mobile, fully intending to send a message to Mycroft's pet hacker, but before he could do more than tap his thumb against the keypad, John distracted him again. 

"It's nice, spending time with people you like," John continued, his words quickening in apparent response to Sherlock's silence. "Especially if they make you happy. Family...friends...girlfriends...boyfriends. All of it...it's all fine."

Sherlock's lip curled involuntarily, before he managed to school his face back into 'Billy's' easygoing expression. "I'll take your word for it," Sherlock replied with studied neutralness. "I'm...not used to spending a great deal of time in the company of other humans, let alone those who actively seek my company."

"Oh, right. I guess you do spend most of your time working with troubled horses and owners who aren't happy to be told they're idiots?"

"Yes."

"Seems a shame, considering how clever you are." John licked his lips again, giving Sherlock another sideways look. "So...was that who was texting you, then? Another client?"

"A work colleague, actually," Sherlock replied absently as he slid his phone back into his pocket. "I asked her to research something for me."

"Her?"

"Yes."

"Is she cute?"

Sherlock took a moment to mull over the description. Though he had absolutely no sexual attraction to Donovan whatsoever, he was quite aware of the conventional standards of beauty and could extrapolate John's preferences based on the women Sherlock had watched the veterinarian ogling. Donovan's facial features possessed a pleasing symmetry and she displayed the classical hallmarks of good health: clear skin, shiny hair, bright eyes and well-maintained teeth. She also valued personal hygiene. Her current rank and willingness to at least listen to Sherlock were also indicative of her intelligence. "I suppose she would be considered conventionally attractive," Sherlock replied slowly, "though women aren't really my area."

"Ah. Okay. "John pursed his lips, clearly considering Sherlock's response. "So...is...this about another client? Or is it somehow related to Devil's Blaze?"

"Devil's Blaze." Sherlock confirmed. "Why do you ask?"

"Just...making conversation. That's all," John replied with a shrug, giving Sherlock an innocent smile.

"I see," Sherlock said suspiciously. John's questions seemed a bit too pointed for just 'making conversation'. Especially in light of the fact that he was apparently counting Sherlock's texts. Fishing for more information, perhaps? Sherlock narrowed his eyes to study John a bit more closely, looking for signs of stress or subterfuge. Nothing. Just that same easy, slightly flirtatious smile accompanied by more distracting lip-licking.

John flushed, perhaps discomfited by Sherlock's intense stare. "Look. I want to help. If there's anything I can do, any tests you need me to run, just let me know, alright?"

"I'll...keep that in mind. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The cab was quiet for a bit. John concentrated on his driving while Sherlock turned his focus inward, his unseeing eyes playing over the ocher and tan landscape.

"So...ah...I was wondering, do you...have to be back at the ranch at a set time? Like to help with evening chores or anything?" John asked abruptly, pulling Sherlock out of his mental wanderings.

"Mmmm…nope. My sole responsibility is to Devil's Blaze. I just need to return at some point in the next few hours. Why?"

"Well, just that it's after seven and I'm starving. I'm sure you are too. Do you...want to stop somewhere, maybe get a bite to eat?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied. His stomach chose that moment to let loose an angry growl that was audible in the cab, despite the noise from the road.

John snorted and gave Sherlock a patently disbelieving expression. "Uh huh. You were saying?"

Sherlock frowned, annoyed with the betrayal of his transport. Eating was tedious. On the other hand, it would give him an opportunity to continue interrogating John under the guise of being social. "Fine," Sherlock huffed, his tone grudging. "Anyplace in particular that you would recommend?"

"Depends. What are you in the mood for?"

"Tea, preferably something better than that disgusting Lipton pap I found in the cupboards in my cabin. Failing that, I'll have coffee."

"You can't live off of caffeine alone, you idiot," John mock-scolded, his cheerful tone making it clear that the dig was friendly, rather than mocking. "Though God knows I've tried often enough over the years. How does pizza sound?"

"Ugh. No."

"Chinese?"

Sherlock shook his head; he was skeptical of the quality of Chinese food one might find in Texas and abruptly homesick for the taro-filled Dàbāo from his favorite Chinese restaurant back home. They were the perfect snack for when he was working and the transport demanded food. The steamed buns were sweet without being cloying and perfectly sized to provide necessary carbohydrates without weighing him down. Biting into the tender, puffy dough was also gratifyingly reminiscent of the soft dinner rolls Cook used to make, which Sherlock would snitch, despite Nanny's repeated scoldings about ruining his appetite, (not that it made any difference to his behavior in the end).

John pursed his lips as he looked at Sherlock sideways, visibly trying to decide what cuisine to offer next. "Okay...tea or coffee...and it sounds like you aren't in the mood for heavy salt or grease. How do sandwiches sound?"

"Acceptable."

"Okay. Good. Now we're getting somewhere." John drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I know a place, but it'll be a bit of a drive to get there though. Problem?"

"No." 

"Great!" John replied, abruptly hitting his brakes and turn-signal. The sudden deceleration as John executed a quick (and probably quite illegal) U-turn in the middle of the otherwise deserted motorway made Sherlock absurdly grateful for the safety belt that John insisted he wear. "Let's go to 'Jo's Joe,' then." 

~*~

"So what is this place?" Sherlock asked, climbing out of the truck and tilting his head to look at John. "Why is it worth a thirty minute drive?"

"Because it's a neat little place that serves damn good sandwiches and coffee," John replied with a grin, carefully locking the doors of his Humvee before leading Sherlock up the dusty sidewalk, towards 4th Street.

"Is it part of a chain?"

"No, it's an independent business that's been around for close to ten years now. One of my ex-girlfriends turned me on this this place. It's kind a fixture for the night crowd, since the local Starbucks close around nine," John explained as they walked, his head swiveling from side to side as he automatically checked out the other pedestrians. 

"Night crowd?" Sherlock asked, suppressing the illogical flash of jealousy of John's casual mention of his previous relationships and his ongoing interest in the female form. It was far more pleasing to contemplate how rapidly John's footsteps synced with his own, despite the differences in their respective heights.

"Students, nurses, musicians, writers and other chronic insomniacs, to name a few," John explained, giving Sherlock a close-lipped smile as they passed a bar, raucous with the sound of country music played loudly. "Plus anybody else who doesn't spend a lot of time sleeping in a bed." 

"Such as yourself?" Sherlock asked, realizing belatedly that the question could be taken a completely different way and silently damning his subconscious for the quip.

"Mmmmmm…" John replied noncommittally, giving Sherlock a saucy wink, a definite swagger creeping into his stride. 

Sherlock flushed, studiously turning away to study the city around them. 

During their drive, they had passed a small university—the West Texas A&M according to Sherlock's phone, and at least a half-dozen different churches of different Christian denominations. The buildings were mostly boxy, one and two-story red brick edifices, some painted, some not, with brightly coloured canvas awnings overhanging the doors and windows. 

It was strange to be in a city and have such an uninterrupted view of the sky. Even the tallest structure he could spot nearby was no more than three stories tall, and surprisingly bland and featureless, compared to the beauty and history that was older London. The streets around them were all laid out in a regular grid, which was in complete contrast to the far more organic sprawling and twisting of London's older roads. The streets were also much wider than they were in much of London, serving as yet another example of the American tendency towards unnecessary pavement, urban sprawl and enormous vehicles. 

Around them, couples were walking arm in arm, or chattering in groups. Apparently the pending arrival of sunset was the cultural cue to go outside, which also explained why parking was so scarce, Sherlock decided. Waiting until the evening to socialize echoed similar cultural practices in Spain and Italy. It made sense. In many Mediterranean and Middle Eastern countries, the soaring midday temperatures made being outside inadvisable since there was a risk of accidental heatstroke. Texas, with its unrelenting heat and sun was absolutely murderous by comparison. He'd have to be sure to purchase Mrs. Hudson a large box of her favorite soothers as a thank-you gift for the sun cream she'd forced him to pack. If it weren't for her foresight, his naturally pale skin would have suffered second-degree burns by now—

"Watch your step," John said suddenly, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Sherlock's right bicep. Sherlock blinked as John gently steered him around a pile of dog faeces that some irresponsible pet owner had left in the middle of the sidewalk. "I'd hate for you to slip and hurt yourself again," John explained, licking his lips as he met Sherlock's puzzled expression.

"Errr...thank you?" Sherlock said, surprised by both the warmth of John's palm, detectable even through the shirt he wore, and the unexpected courtesy. Muntz and Dursley both would have gleefully shoved him face-first into the fetid mess, if they thought they could get away with it.

"You're welcome," John replied, giving Sherlock's arm a friendly squeeze before releasing it and tucking his hands back into his pockets.

"Aaaanddd here we are," John announced with a flourish, stopping before a cafe with a bright purple awning. He opened the door and ushered Sherlock through, his left hand just brushing Sherlock's lower back. The brief touch of his hand sent a flash of warmth through Sherlock's entire body, making him shiver in reaction.

"You alright?" John asked, his face a study in guilelessness. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock huffed, annoyed with the betrayal of his transport. A simple brush of John's hand against his body should not make him feel as overheated and flushed as that Christmas where he'd foolishly eaten four slices of Mrs. Hudson's homemade rum apple cake on an empty stomach. "It's just a bit colder in here than I was expecting," Sherlock continued in response to John's questioning look.

John licked his lips again and grinned. "Yeah. They do keep the A/C pretty cranked. It's one of the reason's it's so popular during the day. Let me know if you get too cold, though; I've got a spare jacket in the truck you're more than welcome to borrow."

"Thank you. I'll...keep that in mind," Sherlock replied, his mind already speculating how John's jacket would smell. Cologne? Horse? Musk? Spice? _No_. Sherlock cut the thought off abruptly. Better to endure the cold than risk the potential distraction. Not that it was working so far. Sherlock found his eyes involuntarily drawn to the sway of John's hips as he followed John to the end of the queue in front cafe's counter. Did the man know how to walk without swaggering? With effort, Sherlock looked away and began surveying the cafe.

It was smaller than the one Molly had taken him to, perhaps three-quarters the size, but it contained a similar selection of mismatched chairs, small tables and a bookcase filled with board games and well-read books.

The concrete floor had been left its natural colour, but polished to give it a dull shine. The antique tin-panel ceiling tiles were still in place, but holes had been drilled through them to accommodate the addition of fluorescent light fixtures and several ceiling fans. Framed prints of various civil rights activists hung on the walls, their names printed below offering clues to their identity: Mahatma Gandhi, Septima Poinsette Clark, Cesar Chavez, Barbara Jordan, Harvey Milk and, surprisingly enough, Peter Tatchell. The rest of the walls were covered with text in different colours. Apparently it was a custom for visitors to sign their name, draw pictures or add inspirational quotes. 

A chalkboard menu hung on the wall behind the counter and deli case, listing the menu and prices, as well as available meat substitutes. The prices were absurdly low, to Sherlock's eyes; conditioned as he was to London's cost of living. He narrowed his eyes, trying to understand the reason, his eyes landing on the clientele and staff. _Oh_. Volunteers and vocational training. It was a shop that was run for a cause, rather than profit. That explained it.

The person in front of them finished paying and John stepped forward, already smiling at the woman behind the counter. "Hey Martina! Looking gorgeous, as always," John greeted her cheerfully, ignoring the fact that the employee's name tag read 'Hot Stuff: Super Barista!'" 

The Hispanic woman, sporting a striking purple mohawk, looked up from the order tag she was finishing, revealing big brown eyes and lips coloured a deep, rich plum. An eyebrow ring winked above her left eye and a small gold stud glimmered on the right side of her nose.

"John! I haven't seen your cute butt around here in a couple of weeks," she exclaimed, her cheeks dimpling with delight. "I was starting to worry. Usually you don't go this long between getting your peach tea fix. Work keeping you busy?"

"Yep. Especially with rodeo season starting again," John laughed, bracing his hands on the counter and leaning forward. "But eh, job security, right? How about you?" 

Sherlock frowned, feeling another unreasonable pang of jealousy. _Illogical_. He could almost hear Mycroft's officious lectures about how caring wasn't an advantage. Taking advantage of John's distraction, Sherlock reached out, easing his confiscated lighter and cigarette from John's back pocket and returning them to his own. John didn't even notice, preoccupied as he was with his flirting. 

"That's what my sister tells herself, every time construction ramps up. Plus, well tonight," the barista added with a laugh and wave, indicating the crowded cafe. She ripped the ticket off the pad and held it out to the older woman with dreads standing behind her. "Two more Five-O specials and mango smoothie, please, Jess."

"You got it, girl!" The woman plucked the ticket out of the barista's hand and hurried towards the pass-through that identified the main food-prep area. 

"So what can I get you tonight, John? 'The Satisfier'? The 'Spicy Enticer' with black beans? Maybe the 'Stimulator'?" The exaggerated emphasis the barista placed on the second consonant adding a sensual lisp to her words. "Or how 'bout an 'Edward Caesarhands' with falafel?" 

John shook his head, straightening up and dropping his left hand back to his side. "Tempting, but no. I'll just take a 'Lousy Hunter' on whole wheat; extra hummus—no olives or celery, please." 

It was the cheapest sandwich available, Sherlock noted, tilting his head back to study the chalkboard menu mounted on the wall behind the counter, roughly a quarter of the price of the sandwiches the barista had suggested. Personal taste, or something else? Sherlock's gaze dropped to John's left hand, which was clenching and unclenching slowly; John seemed unaware of the gesture... _a nervous tic? Perhaps a sign of financial concerns?_

"Easy enough," the barista replied, writing John's order down efficiently. "You want cheese?"

"Not tonight. Oh, but I will take an ice water, with lemon if you have it."

"Sure thing," the barista replied before ringing everything up and reading off the total sum. 

Sherlock watched as John carefully counted out a small pile of folded bills from inside his wallet and reached into his pocket for exact change, rather than sliding a credit card through the machine. John handed the first stack to the barista. Another two bills went into a jar labeled "Tipping: it isn't just for cows!" _Ones_ , Sherlock noted. An amount large enough to be an exceedingly generous tip, but not raise the overall price of the meal unduly. Financial concerns appeared to be the appropriate explanation for John's choice of sandwich.

"I'll get that right out for you, John," the barista promised with a wink, before turning to Sherlock. "And you? What would you like tonight?" 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he stared at the menu's array of offerings in more detail, slightly overwhelmed by the selection and appalled by the names. 'Alice in Wonder Bread,' 'Reuben Hood,' 'Grilled Expectations,' 'Don Chipotle, and worse. The 'Memphis' at least looked interesting: peanut butter and sliced bananas drizzled with local honey and served on golden raisin and cinnamon toast. There was also a French-style sandwich filled with roast beef, onion and cheese with the horrifying moniker 'Johnny Dipp'. "I'll have a 'Memphis'."

"Sure thing. You want bacon or smoky maple tempeh on it?"

Sherlock blinked, considering the flavour implications. The saltiness of the bacon would probably go well with the flavour of the nuts, (Thai cuisine especially liked the combination of sweet and salty spicy). He also knew, thanks to Cook, that honey, raisins and pork paired well together. But, if John was a vegetarian, eating meat in front of him might put him off and make it harder to get closer to him. Better to be safe and err on the side of caution. Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"No problem. What can I get you to drink?

"Coffee. Black, two sugars. Please," Sherlock added as an afterthought, seeing John glance at him sideways, one eyebrow raised at Sherlock's lack of manners. 

"Give us around ten minutes, and it'll be ready," the barista promised, swiping Sherlock's pre-offered credit card through the machine with one hand while pouring a second glass of ice water with the other. 

"Thanks, Martina. We appreciate it," John replied with an easy wink, picking up both beverages while Sherlock was busy signing his receipt. "So, where do you want to sit?" John asked, turning to face Sherlock. Still holding both glasses, John spread his arms out to indicate the packed cafe.

"Anywhere is fine."

Taking him at his word, John led them to a small table in the back that wasn't immediately visible to customers coming in. It was cosy, almost intimate, but located fairly close to the public lavatory, which was probably why it was less popular among diners.

"The staff seems to know you quite well. You eat here a lot, I take it?" Sherlock asked, settling into one of the battered wooden chairs. He didn't like having his back to the door, but John had already claimed the other chair that kept his back to the wall, while affording clear views of the door and window. A soldier's ingrained habit, or something else? As he sat, Sherlock made sure to deliberately bump one of his knees against John's thigh, and then left it there, creating a small point of intimate contact.

John looked up from the table top and gave Sherlock a rueful smile, leaving his leg where it was. "Martina's one of my ex-girlfriends, but yeah. Mostly it's tea and coffee. My hours keep me on the road a lot, but this place makes a mean sandwich for the nights I don't feel like cooking."

"Are you an accomplished cook?" Sherlock asked with interest, determined to move the topic away from John's previous relationships. 

"Self-taught, mostly. I can open a can, scramble eggs, boil water and fry stuff in a cast-iron skillet. That's about it." John took a sip of his ice water and shrugged. "Neither my mother nor my grandmother thought men belonged in a kitchen—that was a woman's place, which pissed my sister Harry and me both right off."

Sherlock suppressed his automatic wince with effort. Mycroft would be horrified; both by the sexism inherent in such a world view and by the lack of culinary skills. While Mycroft hadn't spent a great deal of time in Cook's domain growing up, his love of fine cuisine and his penchant for taking gourmet cooking classes to relax meant that Sherlock's elder brother's skills probably now rivaled a veteran chef's.

"How about you?" John asked as he leaned forward. His tongue darted out, leaving a faint sheen of moisture on his bottom lip. "Can you cook?" 

"No." A lie. Cooking was just chemistry. He was nowhere near as accomplished as his older brother, but it wasn't an especially challenging pastime for a genius...provided he kept himself from being distracted during the process. It had taken the cleaners ages to get the smell of burned Bouillabaisse out of the flat. "Generally I leave cooking to the professionals." Truth, though in reality, it was simply more convenient to over-pay the rent on his flat and guilt Mrs. Hudson into supplying him regular meals on the rare occasions where he was home for any extended length of time and didn't feel like bothering with carryout.

"Aw, shame." John looked like he was about to say something else, but the barista arrived with their respective orders: enormous sandwiches served with a generous helping of brightly-coloured kettle-cooked, root vegetable crisps and a pickle spear each. She gave John another quick grin as she left both plates on the table before hurrying away to help another customer. John watched her walk away with an appreciative smile before turning his attention to his meal, popping one of the crisps into his mouth before picking up his sandwich and taking a bite. 

After a moment, Sherlock did the same. 

The 'Memphis' was surprisingly good. The banana was sweet and firm, not mushy, and the peanut butter and honey worked well with the cinnamon and cardamom flavors of the bread. Sherlock took a second bite, and then a third, before forcing himself to set the sandwich aside in favor of his coffee. It wouldn't do to eat too much, too quickly. Digestion slowed him down and he wanted all of his mental capabilities at their peak. He ignored the crisps. Kettle-cooked crisps were too crunchy for his tastes, parsnips were revolting in any form and he despised truffle oil.

John clearly had no such qualms, almost scarfing his dinner with little happy huffs and hums of pleasure as he chewed. Clearly he was used to eating on the run. Some guacamole oozed out of the edge of the sandwich as John took another bite and Sherlock tilted his head, absurdly captivated by the small smear of pale green at the edge of John's mouth.

"What?" John asked, swallowing quickly, apparently noticing Sherlock's sudden focus.

"You've um...you've got avocado on your face," Sherlock replied, miming the location, slightly flustered as being caught staring.

"Oh, ta. Thanks." John wiped the smear off with his thumb and then sucked the digit clean with an almost obscene sound. "That's the problem with guacamole; it gets everywhere."

Sherlock looked down at his plate and swallowed, his mind supplying images of what John's lips would look like wrapped around other things. The warmth in his cheeks was entirely unfeigned. To distract himself, he focused on taking another bite of his sandwich. 

"So how come you never learned to cook?" John asked after a few minutes of companionable chewing. "Were your parents too busy, or what?

Sherlock didn't even attempt to hide his snort of derision. "John, I told you my mother's first love was horses. Can you really imagine such a woman spending a great deal of time in the kitchen?"

John tilted his head from side to side, like the pendulum on Sherlock's childhood metronome. "Depends...I've met quite a few clients over the years that swear by their family's poultice recipe for a swelling leg...and there are lot of people out there that enjoy baking homemade horse treats for their animals. Who's to say your mother's any different?" 

There was logic to John's statement, even if it wasn't applicable to Sherlock's situation. "True, but no, she was too busy training." More accurately, his mother's idea of cooking involved telling Cook what she wanted to have served at the evening meals. Cooking simply 'wasn't done' by the breed of upper class women the Holmes matriarch embodied. "My elder brother cooks, though," Sherlock added as an afterthought.

John tipped his head in the opposite direction, brow furrowing even as his lips twitched into a smile. "Your...brother?"

"Yes."

John pursed his lips, clearly trying to slot the information into the mental picture he was was no doubt building of Sherlock's family from the information Sherlock had fed him. Sherlock could almost trace the path of John's thoughts on John's expressive features: _family ranch in Montana, non-domestic mother with an opposition to foul language, horse-obsessed younger son…_

"Is he a Chuckwagon cook for a ranch outfit or something?" John asked, predictably suggesting one of the few viable occupations for a male cook in a rural area. "Or does he own a restaurant? One of those all-you-can-eat, stick-to-your ribs down home cooking places? Because I love those; they always have the best homemade peach cobblers." 

Sherlock blinked, momentarily distracted by the horrifying mental image of Mycroft in a cowboy hat and jeans. He gave his head an emphatic shake to dispel the thought. "No. Mike," (and oh, how Mycroft would make him pay if he ever got wind of how Sherlock had Americanized his name), "works with horse registries for races." _A gross simplification_. Mycroft practically was the British Horseracing Authority, when he wasn't being the British Equestrian Federation, or serving as the voice of reason for the International Federation of Horseracing Authorities. The vague occupation description was sufficient for explanation purposes, however. "He cooks for himself, though mostly as a hobby. He's especially fond of cake," Sherlock added, taking another bite of his sandwich to forestall more questions about his family. It was time to redirect the conversation and perhaps do a bit of flirting of his own. "How long have you been a bronco rider?" Sherlock asked, once he finished swallowing. He raised both eyebrows in an expression of acute interest.

John shrugged. "Fifteen years or so? I started competing in the junior divisions in high school as a way to get scholarships and money for college. That was before I decided to enlist. I didn't compete much between deployments, I was too busy studying, but since I've been discharged it's been a fun way to get my adrenaline fix and occasionally make some extra cash. Plus it's fun."

Sherlock looked down at his plate and began picking at one of the crusts of his sandwich. "I...saw you in action at the fairgrounds the other day," Sherlock confessed in a low voice, feigning bashfulness. 

"You did?" John perked up, his expression hopeful. "Doing what?"

"You were calming that gelding down after that idiot let their dog loose."

"Yeah? What did you think?"

"You were impressive," Sherlock admitted honestly. "It was practically a textbook example of disengagement. I don't think I could have done it better myself. Did you grow up around horses?"

John's eyes crinkled with pleasure. "Thanks, and yeah, I did. My grandparents on my dad's side used to own a ranch up north. We spent quite a few summers there when I was growing up. Grandpa was a rancher and I'd help him and the rest of the crew round up cattle for vaccinations, deworming, branding and all. Sometimes it could take a few days so we'd end up doing a bit of rough camping out there under the stars." John smiled, no doubt with fondness at the memories invoked. "There's something special, almost freeing about being alone out there on the back of a horse," he continued with a rueful shrug. "It gives you time to think, to really decide what's important to you. What about you?" John asked, picking up his sandwich in preparation for another bite. "You mentioned earlier you started riding when you were very young?"

"Yes. I was in the saddle almost before I could walk," Sherlock confirmed, tearing off another piece of bread. _Truth_. As Mycroft had grown older, he'd shown an appalling lack of the fine muscular coordination necessary for an elite athlete, as well as undisguised disdain for what he scathingly referred to as 'leg work' (though how much of this was true and how much of this was simple jealousy over his younger brother's natural affinity for horses, Sherlock could never be certain). Regardless, Mummy's obsession with having at least one son grow up and follow in her stirrups as an Olympian had resulted in endless drills, reprimands and lectures for her youngest son whose lithe frame and natural grace resembled her own. "I've always been a loner." _A gross simplification_. "Riding has always been a form of escape for me. Out there, on the prairie—" he narrowly avoided using the word 'moor' "—I could be alone, away from everybody else and their idiocy." 

John tilted his head to one side, his expression hesitant. "Did...you get bullied a lot, growing up?"

Unbidden, Sherlock's mind flashed back to memories of his childhood and the misery he'd endured. The alternating neglect and obsessive coaching of his maternal progenitor hadn't even been the worst of it. His so-called peers had reveled in the sport of picking on an undersized boy with no friends. Punching and pinching had proved too dangerous: Sherlock's naturally fair skin bruised easily, painting a canvas of guilt, so they'd learned to use words instead. Sherlock had been reduced to humiliating tears more than once before he'd learned better control. His classmates at Bedford had been no better. The self-defense skills taught by Mr. Knisley and the boxing lessons his family’s gardener had given him had quickly put an end to physical attacks, so they'd resorted to less personally dangerous means: gleefully disrupting his careful clothing indexes, leaving fingerprints on his beloved violin and calling him every variant of 'freak' they could find when the teachers were out of earshot. It was there, under their tutelage that he’d quickly honed his already razor-sharp tongue to lethal. It had taken time and no small amount of research, but certain classmates had eventually learned the hard way to Leave. Him. Alone.

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly. "Texas might be a more open-minded state"—John snorted at that, but didn't otherwise interrupt—"but I grew up in a rural area. I was surrounded by ranchers with very set views on how boys and men should behave and dress. There were dire consequences for those that didn't...blend in." Not specifically true, but close enough. England was notably ahead of the its former colony when it came to equality, but even it had prosecuted Alan Turing and Oscar Wilde for 'gross indecency'. "The fact that I preferred to observe horses to learn their body language, study natural horsemanship and generally treat my animals with gentleness and respect instead of using a lasso or a whip indiscriminately led to more than a few...confrontations." True, but they weren't exactly the types of confrontations John was probably assuming. Sherlock's familiarity with normal horse body language meant that spotting subtle doping tells and behavioral issues was elementary, and quite often led to insults, tears, screaming, chases, fights and court hearings when he unmasked the culprits. "Some idiots thought that my preference for relying on my mind, rather than brute strength made me a 'sissy,'" Sherlock concluded, with a subdued shrug. The gender-based pejorative was fairly mild compared to some of the names he'd had hurled his direction, but it was sufficient for explanation purposes. 

John looked troubled. "So is...that what you meant when you mentioned having met Sterndale's type before?" 

"Yes. Being able to adopt a hyper-masculine persona became a very useful form of protective camouflage when I was growing up." 

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, looking up from the pile of shredded bread on his plate to stare at John. "You weren't there; you weren't the bully punching me in the face or sabotaging my belongings so it's hardly something you need to apologize for." 

"I know." John's blue eyes were warm and a little sad as he returned Sherlock's gaze. "Doesn't mean I can't express sympathy, though. People shouldn't judge you or hurt you for liking who you like, or dressing the way you want to dress or...believing whatever you believe. People are different, and if at the end of the day, you aren't hurting anybody, then it's fine. It's all fine." 

Sherlock froze, blinking rapidly several times in quick succession before narrowing his eyes to study John's features. He tipped his head to one side, his lips parting in confusion. Surely John was mocking him. Even Mycroft, the older brother young Sherlock had practically worshiped hadn't bothered expressing such sentiments during the rare occasions he returned home during school hols. At worst, Mycroft had rolled his eyes and advised Sherlock to stiffen his upper lip. At best, he had commiserated about how it was their misfortune to be stuck living in a world of goldfish and lecture about the advantages of being alone. Admittedly, his elder brother's advice made logical sense but it wasn't exactly...comforting for a young boy who'd lost his only true friend to cancer the year prior. All he could read, though, was John's quiet sincerity and perhaps a little anxiety at how long Sherlock had remained silent. "I know it's fine...but I've never...you are the first person who...I mean…um...thank you," Sherlock finally stammered. "What you said was, um, good." 

Instead of easing John's anxiety, Sherlock's awkward reply only seemed to deepen the furrow of concern etched across John's brow. He opened his mouth, clearly prepared to say something, but visibly checked himself before the words could be uttered aloud. "Right, um, okay," John said, briefly clearing his throat. "I thought it was kind of obvious, but you're, er, welcome." John cleared his throat again and then looked down at his plate, clearly trying to think of a less-emotional conversational topic. He picked up the last crisp had accompanied his sandwich and ate it, before looking over at Sherlock's plate, his expression shifting to one of concern as he tilted his chin to indicate the pile of torn bread that Sherlock had created beside the pickle spear and crisps. "You haven't touched your potato chips. Is something wrong?"

Sherlock blinked, belatedly recognizing the American name for British potato crisps, and grimaced. "Yes. Parsnips are revolting, regardless of how they're prepared. Though technically, they should be referred to by a different name since neither the cassava, nor the taro is technically a potato."

John laughed, shaking his head in bemusement. "Your brain amazes me, Billy. You recognized a taro root despite it being thinly sliced, fried and drenched with salt?"

"Of course. The pale flesh dotted with purple specks is quite distinctive."

"That's brilliant," John snickered, licking his lips. "So, are you sure you're not going to eat them?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't like hard things that have the potential to cut my gums or soft palate."

"Mind if I have at? My mouth can handle pretty much anything."

"Help yourself," Sherlock replied, shoving the plate across the table with a grimace of disgust to conceal the flash of arousal John's words had sparked. He was supposed to be simulating attraction in _John_ to get past the vet's guard; John's blatant attempts at innuendo shouldn't be having a reciprocal effect on his normally ironclad libido. 

"Thanks. I figure it'd be a shame for them to go to waste," John commented cheerfully, pulling the plate closer. His hand hovered for a moment, before settling on a slice of fried yam, which he popped into his mouth and ate with an expression of bliss. "It's a shame you don't like chips," John commented after he swallowed, his tongue darting out again as he licked his lips. "These are house made and very, very good." John sucked his thumb and forefinger clean of salt with soft little pops and then picked up another piece of fried vegetable. "So...what did you do, when you were out riding by yourself?"

Sherlock seized on the change of topic gratefully, deciding to ignore the obvious colloquialism. He needed something, anything to divert his attention from John's distracting, (and possibly unintentional) pseudo-fellatio. "It's actually where I got my start in studying the body language of feral horses. I would spend hours just observing them in their natural environment, seeing how they interacted with each other and watching them to learn how herd leaders inspire trust and obedience. It's proven invaluable in my work to rehabilitate abused animals, though I have yet to make any real progress with Devil's Blaze. I'm beginning to wonder if there's something important that I've missed."

"Maybe, but like I said; you're clever," John said with an encouraging smile and wink as he licked his thumb clean again. "If there is, then I'm sure you'll figure it out, and I'm here and willing to help."

~*~

"This is intolerable!" Sherlock growled later that evening, hours after John had dropped him off back at the Triple C. He spun on his heel, bare feet squeaking slightly against the wooden floor as he paced from the kitchenette's island where his laptop sat open and surrounded by half-drunk cups of tea and empty boxes of nicotine patches, past the fireplace and sofa where Bonnie lay, past the closed and covered window and back again. Bonnie's tail thumped softly against the cushions as Sherlock made another circuit around the room before finally dropping down onto the sofa beside her with a huff of frustration. His left hand reached out, automatically rubbing at the dog's ears while he nibbled on the thumbnail of his right.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told Sterndale he was familiar with the most common plants toxic to horses. Granted, his knowledge was primarily of British flora, but nightshade, acorns, oak leaves, _Digitalis purpurea_ (better known as foxglove), hemlock, St. John's Wort and _Taxus baccata,_ or yew remained poisonous regardless of which continent they were growing on. But every region had its own unique vegetation, which was why he'd planned on spending the past few hours extensively researching native Texas plants, paying especially close attention to the handful that he'd overheard mentioned during Sterndale and John's discussion. 

Unfortunately, every time he tried to concentrate, his focus was interrupted by thoughts of John: John's distracting lip-licking, the snap of his voice as he refuted Sterndale's half-hearted diagnoses, the power contained in his short frame, his open admiration of Sherlock's intelligence, his scent, how warm his hands had felt and, most damning of all, the briefest feel of John's arse against his fingertips when he'd pick-pocketed his lighter and cigarette back. 

He began to cross his legs out of habit, but the sudden pressure against his groin was enough to make him hiss in discomfort. "Oh for God's sake," Sherlock snapped, glaring down at his still-bulging fly. It remained cheerfully oblivious to the annoyance it was causing its owner. He could feel himself throbbing in time with his pulse. Sherlock sneered at his crotch briefly, upper lip curling in disgust before allowing his head to fall back against the sofa's cushion with a soft thump. He flopped one arm across his face in what Mrs. Hudson had once laughingly referred to as his "dying Pre-Raphaelite saint' pose, only to grimace at the odor of sweat, dirt and horse emanating from his shirt. 

He needed a shower and perhaps a nap to reboot his brain. It was a given that he'd be utterly filthy again before sunset tomorrow, but at least he could enjoy a few hours smelling like himself, rather than a ranch hand. Giving Bonnie's ears a final scratch, Sherlock stood up and opened the cabin's front door so the collie could resume her nighttime patrol. The collie gave him a look that could almost be described as 'reproachful' as she obediently climbed off the couch, but she went outside without fuss. Sherlock shut the door and locked it, before walking over to the linen closet to fetch a spare towel. He would never get his ridiculously thick, curly hair dry otherwise.

In the bathroom, Sherlock stripped quickly, suddenly anxious to be clean. He winced at the ache of sore muscles in his arms and shoulders as he unbuttoned his shirt. Devil's Blaze had pushed him hard today, even though they hadn't done anything more than groundwork and his still-healing wrist was recalling that fact. A dose of Paracetamol or the American equivalent would probably be a wise choice, unless he wanted to deal with residual stiffness and swelling in the morning. He finished shucking his jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor with the rest of his dirty clothes to deal with later and stepped into the shower with a grateful sigh. 

He spent several long, blissful moments with both forearms braced against the shower's wall, simply enjoying the sensation of cool water against his overheated skin. The rush of water was almost meditative, allowing his mind respite from the frustrating tangle of emotions he was feeling. The cool water also had the desired effect of dispelling his annoyingly persistent erection. Eventually he grabbed his Thymes Azur shower gel and began to scrub himself clean with a loofah. Foam slithered over his body and down his legs before swirling down the drain, taking layers of grit, sweat and sunblock with it. The combined scents of white tea, white pepper, musk, vanilla and sweet amber filling the air were infinitely preferable to the odours of manure and the artificial citrus of the cleaner used to disinfect the bathroom.

Next was his hair: conditioner first to smooth everything and keep his curls from tangling so horribly, then shampoo, then another round of conditioner, paying close attention to the ends. The reverse washing pattern kept his hair from drying out, with the added benefit of keeping it more manageable when it eventually dried. 

Finally feeling clean and at least marginally cooler, Sherlock turned the taps off and stepped out of the shower. He toweled his body dry with the first towel, and used the second to soak as much of the water out of his hair, before abandoning both towels in a heap on the floor. The next few minutes were spent applying Moroccanoil treatment to his still-damp curls, brushing his teeth, and medicating the still-sore blisters on his feet. Evening ablutions complete, Sherlock padded into the bedroom, still nude, and threw himself across the inferior mattress, willing his mind to quiescence. 

But sleep refused to come.

The room still felt unbearably muggy and hot, despite the rattling of the window unit and the best efforts of the cabin's ceiling fan. Sherlock rolled over, trying in vain to seek a cool spot on his pillow case before giving up with a huff and flopping back on his eyes to glare at the ceiling. 

He hated Texas. 

With the exception of a rather fascinating case, there was nothing worthwhile to be had in the entire bloody state. It was too hot, too dusty, too big, too sunny and impossible to get a decent cup of tea. 

Without conscious thought, his mind recalled a mental image of John's naked torso, tanned to the same shade of a perfectly brewed cup of tea with milk by that same sun and slick with sweat. Sherlock blinked in surprise as his penis gave a twitch of interest in response to the association the word 'tea' had produced. It wasn't as unpleasant as the word association games he'd been subjected to by different psychiatrists, but it was still distracting. He glared at the offending organ, willing it back to flaccidity, but his cock apparently had a mind of it's own. Despite his best efforts at self control, his corpora cavernosa continued to grow and thicken in response to the flood of chemical signals from his hypothalamus, until his fully-engorged penis was bobbing slightly in time with his breathing. A small bead of precome began to ooze from the tip and make its way very, very slowly down the shaft. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in annoyance. He seldom bothered to masturbate; it was messy, distracting and the resultant rush of serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin and prolactin reminded him unpleasantly of his ultimately disastrous relationship with Victor. When he did masturbate to ensure his prostate's continued health, he preferred to keep his movements perfunctory, getting the entire tedious process over with as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, this was clearly not going to be a situation where he could ignore his penis into quiescence. 

Fine. Since thoughts of John Watson were responsible for his transport's distracting condition, then thoughts of John Watson could help him alleviate it.

Reaching down, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his erection, hissing slightly at the texture of rough calluses against sensitive skin.

No.

Too rough and dry.

John's hands were callused as well, but if he were anywhere near the level of sexual master that was implied by the remarks Molly Hooper, Candii Ross and others had made, there was no way he'd risk causing a partner discomfort with chafing.

Sherlock slid off the bed and padded into the bathroom, his erection leading the way, to look for something that would function as a lubricant. His eyes fell on his bottle of Moroccanoil Treatment sitting on the edge of the wall-mounted sink. Ordinarily, he used just a drops at a time to tame his hair into curls, rather than frizz, but beggars couldn't be choosers. 

Sherlock picked up the dark brown bottle, unscrewed the cap and took an analytical sniff, before nodding his head once in approval. It wasn't quite the scent of John—John smelled of leather and sun, spice and sweat, but the faintly-sweet, slightly woodsy smell was close enough to help bolster the fantasy. He poured a few drops into the palm of his left hand and dabbed his middle finger and thumb in the small puddle, before rubbing them together to test the oil's viscosity. The pads of his digits slid smoothly against each other with a pleasing lack of friction. One test left. Sherlock wiped his left hand dryish against the bare skin of his left thigh and the held the bottle up to the light to double-check the ingredient list printed on the label for known allergens. What was safe to apply in small doses didn't necessarily hold true when the same substance was applied to large areas of skin, as the regretful episode involving a particular brand of horse liniment had demonstrated on a painfully memorable occasion. 

Sherlock glanced down at his thigh to check the results of his experiment. His skin remained satisfying pale, with no sign of redness or irritation. Technically, he should wait forty-eight hours after daubing a novel substance on his skin if he wanted to do a scientifically accurate patch test, but the borderline painful throbbing meant he didn't have the luxury of waiting, and the fact that his skin hadn't immediately erupted in hives meant it was a risk he was willing to take.

In a moment of foresight, he thought to grab one of his damp towels off the bathroom floor before striding back into the bedroom, where he let the towel drop carelessly on the floor beside the bed. Having a towel on hand would make cleanup easier and it meant he wouldn't have to leave the bed afterward. Unscrewing the cap again, Sherlock poured a generous puddle into palm of his left hand before grimacing in realization at the problematic logistics. It was difficult enough to open a lid one-handed, never mind closing it. Eventually he gave up and used his legs to hold the bottle in place so he could rescrew the cap closed. The sensation of cool glass between his hot thighs made goosebumps erupt across his bare skin, which had the perverse effect of heightening his arousal.

He placed the bottle safely on the floor where it couldn't accidentally get knocked off and broken (even comfortable masturbation wasn't worth the risk of frizzy hair), rubbed his hands together to warm the oil and then lay back as he slicked himself up.

 _Much better_. The oil felt positively silky as it glided over his turgid flesh. Sherlock's eyes drifted closed to better imagine his fantasy. How to play this? The more detailed he could make it, the sooner he could achieve orgasm and go back to concentrating on The Work. 

Sherlock scrunched his eyes and tilted his head to one side, accessing the mental files he'd already compiled about John. Memories burst forth: John's arse as he bent over, John's blue eyes, John's boyish snicker, John's grin, John's enticing scent of leather and musk, clean sweat and warm cotton, and the way that he licked his lips constantly. It almost certainly indicated a man whose oral fixation was at least as strong as Sherlock's own. Sherlock's mouth went dry, imagining how John's agile tongue might feel trailing across his body, laving at his nipples, perhaps circling around the rim of his navel and dipping into the humid hollow before moving down to begin licking broad stripes against the head of his cock...

_Acceptable._

A fantasy, an efficient release and his erection would vanish for the foreseeable future. 

Sherlock scooted up further on the bed so that his feet were no longer overhanging the end. He'd already stripped the antique quilt and top sheet from mattress in a fit ennui. The freshly-laundered cotton of the bottom sheet felt slightly rough to his skin, accustomed as he was to Egyptian cotton, 1000 thread count, closely woven percale sheets, but the inferior fabric actually worked in his favor. He could pretend that that he was in John's bed. Sherlock shifted slightly, allowing the rough cotton to rub against his back, enjoying the slight chafing, as if John had tackled him into the bed in preparation for sexual congress. 

In his mind, John was stretched out the bed beside him, wearing nothing but a pair of those damnable jeans that exactly matched the blue of his eyes and highlighted the shape of his magnificent arse. He was braced on his elbows, the pose emphasizing the strong planes of his chest and the musculature curves of his biceps and deltoids to Sherlock's appreciative gaze. The moonlight falling through the window turned John's gold fringe to silver and painted shadows across his strong frame that gleamed faintly in the semi-darkness; hidden places just waiting to be explored by Sherlock's lips and fingers and tongue. 

John's own gaze was avid, his lips curved into a smile as he took in Sherlock's body. "Oh god, just look at you, you gorgeous thing," the imaginary John husked, his voice taking on a deeper timbre than the one he used to praise Sherlock's deductions. He licked his lips, his tongue darting out as if he couldn't wait to taste Sherlock's skin. "I can't believe that I get to see you like this, stretched out naked across my bed, like a veritable feast for me to devour," John continued, his eyes focusing on Sherlock's chest. Suddenly he shifted, arms and shoulders bulging as he braced himself above Sherlock's torso. He dipped his head so he could blow a soft breath of air across Sherlock's peaked nipples; the warmth of John's breath across his flesh barely perceptible amongst the currents caused by the ceiling fan.

Sherlock arched his back, the better to feel the breeze against his skin. "You're so sensitive," John murmured, as Sherlock brought his hands up and began smoothing them over his chest, the traces of oil making everything faintly slick and damp, the way he imagined John's mouth and tongue would be. 

"Do you like it when I tease you? Do you like it soft, or just a little bit rough?" John asked, him, his voice rough with arousal. "Do you imagine my teeth here?" John continued, lowering his head so his teeth were just above Sherlock's right nipple. "I bet you do. Shhhh...Let me try an experiment…I'll be gentle…" 

With a gasp, Sherlock reached up and began to tweak his own nipples, imagining that it John's lips and teeth were responsible for the little flashes of pleasure/pain.

"Oh yes, you do like that, don't you," John whispered, satisfaction replete in his tone. "I bet I know what else you like? I've seen you watching my mouth." He backed down the bed and lowered his head again not close enough enough to touch, but close enough that Sherlock could feel the warm puffs of John's breath against the sensitized skin of his shaft. "I bet you're just dying to find out how my lips would feel wrapped around your cock, aren't you?" 

"Oh, please John…" Sherlock moaned, his head thrashing against the pillow as he imagined John's cheeks hollowing as he sucked hard. He could feel the tingles from his groin radiating out and filling his body with jittery, prickly warmth. 

"Hush, now. Just be patient," John chided, but the smile evident in his voice made it clear it was for pretend, rather than with any real heat. "Don't worry. I'm going to take _very_ good care of you. We don't have a condom, so we're going to do it this way instead." John lowered his head enough to brush his lips along Sherlock's glans in the very faintest of kisses, no more pressure than the weight of a bee on the palm of his hand, before wrapping his hand around Sherlock's shaft and setting up a hard, fast rhythm that made Sherlock's toes curl. 

Sherlock tightened his grip and began to thrust in earnest, his mind easily replacing the reality of his hand with John's instead. His hips snapped up, his breath coming in harsh pants as he fucked his own fist. The Moroccanoil was warm and slick, allowing him to thrust without worrying about damage. Its woodsy scent filled the air, overlaying the scent of Sherlock's own arousal, feeding back into the fantasy. 

"That's it, Gorgeous. Come on you brilliant, gorgeous thing. Oh yeah. Look at that. That's fantastic," John growled, the litany of praise spilling from his lips encouraging Sherlock to thrust faster. "You like that? You like my hand on you? _Fuck_ , you're gorgeous. Come on. I want to see you. Come on..."

"Oh God, _John!_ " 

"That's it. That's perfect. I want to see you. Impress me, Beautiful. Let me see you let go. Now," John added, his voice taking on a snap of command. 

Sherlock's eyes flew open in shock, his mouth making a little 'oh' of astonishment as his orgasm roared through him, making his entire body contract with shivers of pleasure and blotting out the world in a flash of white. 

He came back to himself slowly feeling unusually lethargic, his thoughts moving like cold honey through his mind as he stared at the spinning ceiling fan hanging above him.

That had been...surprisingly not-tedious. 

Out of habit, he reached over and picked up his mobile to check the time. It felt oddly heavy in his hand and he had to blink several times to clear the sweat from his eyes before he could finally read the screen. When he did, one of his eyebrows rose in almost scientific interest. _Fascinating_. Four minutes and forty-eight seconds; the time that it took to properly play Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst's ' _Grand Caprice sur 'Le Roi des Aulnes' de Franz Schubert, Op. 26_ ' through once. A new record. It appeared that visualizing John Watson apparently accelerated the process of achieving orgasm via masturbation, though it was impossible to determine a correlation from a single event.

Sherlock let his phone fall into the bed beside him and blinked slowly, trying to better catalogue the sensations his transport was experiencing. Aftershocks were still running through his frame, making him shiver, but at the same time, he felt ridiculously relaxed, as if he'd spent the last hour under the hands of a talented masseuse, rather than simply manually stimulating his genitalia. The drying semen on his belly felt oddly cold, as did the sheen of sweat on his chest and Sherlock spent a few minutes wondering why something approximately the same temperature has his own body would feel cold, before the answer came to him. 

" _Oh. Yes_ ," Sherlock thought, willing his mind back to coherence. " _Liquid cooling by evaporation had the effect of reducing overall skin surface temperature. The sensible thing would be to wipe it off before it dries into an unpleasant crust_." 

Sherlock yawned as he dropped his right hand over the edge of the bed to fumble for the towel he'd dropped on the floor earlier. It was still slightly damp, which made cleanup easier. Mess dealt with, he let the towel fall to the floor again and began to tug at the edge of the quilt he'd previously discarded, pulling it up onto the bed with slow, uncoordinated movements. Still yawning, Sherlock pulled the quilt over his body and burrowed under the soft cotton, like a cat seeking the most comfortable place to sleep as he curled up into a fetal pose, succumbing to the lassitude engulfing his transport.

He would focus on the Work tomorrow.

~*~


	11. A Latte Suspects...

~*~

_12345_

_The password is incorrect. Try again._

_qwerty_

_The password is incorrect. Try again._

_password_

_The password is incorrect. Try again._

_SDonvovan_

_The password is incorrect. Try again._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, begrudgingly impressed. Apparently Donovan was one of those rare office employees who made at least a token effort with regard to computer security. Folding his hands in front of his mouth, Sherlock ran his eyes over the contents of Donovan's desk and bookcase, looking for clues as to what she might have been thinking when she last created her password. Even the most security-conscious individual tended to personalize their passwords, imbibing them with personal meaning that made them both memorable and easy for the user to recall. Anniversaries, inside jokes, pet names and personal character traits were prime fodder. 

The overflowing rubbish container full of to-go cups was an obvious start, as was the picture of Donovan shaking hands with Maya Angelou. He could also see a few biographies for what were no doubt other prominent civil rights activists or law enforcement individuals. He'd actually read the one about Bass Reeves. There was a photograph tucked off to one side of Donovan's desk featuring a small tortoiseshell cat sleeping in a purple planter shaped like an oversized coffee mug. It didn't appear that Donovan spent a great deal of time gardening, so the choice of flowerpot was probably intended as a joke, especially since it appeared large enough to hold one day's worth of Donovan's beverage of choice. 

_Easy enough,_ Sherlock decided, carefully typing in 'blackcoffee.' 

Ninety minutes later, Sherlock was glaring at the computer screen, almost growling in annoyance at the error message displayed on the screen in front of him. It seldom took him more than a few tries to guess the password of the average individual, but so far 'coffeeaddict,' 'fueledbycaffeine,' 'coffeekitty,' 'kittylovescoffee,' 'coffeecat' had all failed. 'Marguerite_Annie_Johnson,' 'Bass_Reeves,' 'Cora_Parchment,' 'Maya,' 'BlackPanther,' and multiple capitalization variations and assorted other permutations wherein letters were substituted with obvious numbers (3 for e, 0 for o, 1 for l or i, @ for a, or ( for c), had also been rejected. To makes matters worse, Donovan had set her computer to automatically lock for twenty minutes after a certain number of wrong attempts, adding to Sherlock's rising frustration. 

He'd taken advantage of the enforced breaks to snoop through Donovan's office, looking for more information on the Devil's Blaze case, but it had been for naught. Donovan apparently utilized some arcane organization method understood only by her. Most of the files he'd skimmed through were for dull insurance fraud cases involving automobiles, a diamond necklace, and a box of expensive Cuban cigars that had been insured for arson and then smoked. The ones that didn't pertain to insurance fraud involved identity theft and pharmaceutical scams. Wherever the Devil's Blaze file was, it wasn't here. 

Sherlock slowly drummed his fingers on the keyboard, trying to decide what to try next. It was both admirable and irritating to encounter somebody who actually listened to the network security administrators and created a not-easily guessable "JFx6T!9" password that would shrug off a casual hacker. 

The sound of heels clicking down the hallway in short, sharp, staccato steps heralded the detective's arrival several seconds before she appeared. Sherlock made a face, but didn't move away from the computer. 

The was a rattling sound and fumble at the door knob, followed by the soft thudding sound of a shoe striking wood. The door swung open and Donovan stepped forward, only to freeze just inside the jamb in apparent shock at the sight of Sherlock seated behind her desk. A white, 24 ounce paper cup branded with an antlered buck's head superimposed on a gold star was clutched in each of her hands, and she was carrying a bundle of file folders underneath one arm. A purse hung over one shoulder and an overstuffed attaché case hung from the other. How she'd managed the knob short of acquiring a prehensile tail was a mystery for another day, part of Sherlock's mind noted distantly as he continued his efforts to crack Donovan's password. 

_Java_Joe_Justice_

_The password is incorrect. Try again._

_Death_Before_Decaf!_

_That password is expired. Try again._

Donovan's mouth opened and closed several times as she took in the scene. Still frowning, she stepped through and nudged the door closed behind her with a heel. "Holmes? What the _hell_ are you doing in my office?" Donovan demanded in an irritated tone, her raised voice grating on Sherlock's sensitive ears. "The interview isn't until nine. It's barely seven." 

Sherlock looked up from the screen with a frustrated huff as his latest attempt was rejected. His gaze slid over Donovan, taking in the shadows under Donovan's eyes and the slightly wrinkled blouse and trousers she wore. The faint, slightly spicy fragrance surrounding her was unmistakably either a men's aerosol deodorant or body spray. Mass-produced feminine fragrances were almost always heavily floral and/or food based: rose, vanilla, brown sugar, cherry, cucumber, peach or lilac. Donovan's scent meanwhile carried notes of musk, smoke and tangy citrus. "Late night, Detective?" Sherlock asked waspishly, still more than a little irked at being thwarted in his hacking attempts and determined to take out his frustration on somebody else. 

Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Yes, actually. Why?" 

"Your deodorant. It's decidedly masculine. An interesting choice of scent for a woman, I must say." 

Donovan blinked twice before narrowing her eyes angrily as she evidently grasped was Sherlock was insinuating. The look she gave Sherlock was filled with contempt. "Did you seriously just try and slut-shame me by implying that I spent the night sleeping with my boss? Is that how you think I got my job?" 

Sherlock blinked and looked down, abruptly chastened as the very real insult and disgust in Donovan's voice registered. He opened his mouth preparing to refute her accusation, but Donovan wasn't finished. 

"Fuck you, you judgmental, misogynistic freak," Donovan snarled, her upper lip curling in derision. "Maybe _your_ career was handed to you with a silver spoon, but I spent last night busting my ass investigating a potential case of swoop-and-squat, crashed on the couch in the employee lounge and then made do with what I could find in the locker room this morning. And for your information, even if I hadn't, not every woman enjoys smelling like a walking, talking advert for Bath and Bodyworks. Some of us prefer less-flowery scents. Now, if that's your opinion of professional conduct, then you can get the fuck out of my office." 

An uncomfortable silence grew. 

Sherlock swallowed hard and looked away, shame creeping through him in a sick tide at Donovan's response. How many times had he heard people imply that the only reason he got his job was because of his relation to Mycroft or his family's wealth, rather than his own skills? Even Victor had expressed similar sentiments. Worse still was the imagined expression on Mrs. Hudson's face at hearing him echo something her late (and unlamented) husband might have said. Her disappointed expression would be paired with a soft _"Oh Sherlock…_ , the words uttered in the gently rebuking, stomach-churning-guilt producing tone mastered by parents everywhere. 

Sherlock swallowed again and pressed his lips together, summoning courage, before raising his chin to Donovan's bitter gaze straight-on. "I...am...sorry," Sherlock said awkwardly, unused to legitimate apologies. "What I implied was...uncalled for. Forgive me." 

The uncomfortable silence persisted as Donovan pursed her lips, clearly debating on whether or not Sherlock was being sincere. After a moment she blew out an angry breath. "Damnit...rise above it," she muttered, directing the comment to the ceiling, rather than Sherlock. She exhaled loudly, lowered her chin and Sherlock's eyes levelly. "Apology accepted. Don't do it again." After a moment, Donovan sighed and grimaced. "And on that note, I owe you an apology as well," she said grudgingly. "While you were out of line, I shouldn't have called you a freak either, or told you to fuck off. That was unprofessional of me. Lots of cops have vouched for your work." 

Sherlock tipped his head in acknowledgement. The reciprocal apology was unexpected, but appreciated nonetheless. 

After a moment, Donovan gave Sherlock a pointed look and jerked her chin. "Right. We may be on amicable terms now, but you're still in my chair, Holmes. Move," she ordered. 

Sherlock huffed, but complied. Having Mrs. Hudson as his landlady had taught him the perils of ignoring That Look. He stood up, meticulously straightening his suit jacket, but leaving the center button of his jacket undone to prevent creases, before moving around the desk with studied nonchalance. 

Donovan waited until Sherlock had vacated her seat before setting both to-go cups down beside the monitor within easy reach of the keyboard. The stack of files was dropped to land on the desk with a muffled thwap, while the attaché case was set on the floor. "You didn't answer my question earlier," Donovan reminded Sherlock as she shrugged out of her suit jacket and turned to hang it and her purse from a convenient hook on the back of the door. "How did you get in here? This whole area is employees only, unless you have an escort." 

"It's amazing what one can accomplish with the right attitude if one is wearing a nice suit and carrying a briefcase. Especially if one is carrying a box of pastries," Sherlock replied smugly, as he sprawled sideways in one of the two chairs facing Donovan's desk. He draped his long legs over one of the arms and allowed the other arm to support his lumbar spine. In the back of his mind, he could imagine Nanny and Mummy's voices chiding him for slouching, but he couldn't be arsed to care. He hadn't cared about Mummy's precious antiques then, and he didn't care about his posture now. 

Donovan furrowed her brow. The implication that heads were going to roll later apparent. 

"What is a swoop-and-squat?" Sherlock asked with interest, rolling the unfamiliar term around on his mouth the same way he'd savor a mouthful of fine scotch or one of Mrs. Hudson's fairycakes. As a distraction ploy, it wasn't the most effective, but any attempt was better than letting Donovan lamblast the easily-distracted clerk and hindering his future access. "I've never heard that term before." 

"It's an organized crime technique," Donovan explained absently, moving around the desk to claim her chair. "You fill a car with some people who are desperate enough to be in a vehicle when it wrecks, stuff the trunk with enough tires and blankets to hopefully cushion the impact and then get deliberately rear-ended by something that looks well-insured—commercial semis are a favorite target. After the wreck, you hire a lawyer, file the insurance claims and hope for a hefty payout. If you're lucky, you don't die." 

"Fascinating." 

"Mmmm," Donovan replied noncommittally as she picked up one of the coffees and took a large sip while jiggling the mouse with her other hand to deactivate the automatic screen-saver. The annoying images of a computer-generated starfield vanished, to be replaced with the incorrect password notification still appearing on the screen. She blinked, quickly taking in evidence. "What the?" Donovan exclaimed, before rounding to glare at Sherlock. "Were you looking at my computer?" Donovan demanded accusingly. 

"Trying to," Sherlock said sourly, but with a grudging tone of respect. "My compliments on your choice of password. I couldn't guess it at all." 

"Good. That is rather the point." 

"Do you have an especially militant IT tech in your department?" 

"No," Donovan replied with a decided smirk. "I grew up cutting my teeth on the stories of the women code breakers and their decryption efforts at Bletchley Park, thanks to my Grandma." 

Sherlock blinked. Of all the reasons he'd formulated for Donovan's password security, that interesting bit of history hadn't been one of them. He was an Consulting Equine Expert, not a detective, but it was still a foolish oversight. Donovan's Cockney accent, the picture of her parents taken in front of Big Ben and her mother's military service should both have been clues. He pursed his lips as he watched Donovan's fingers tap out a series of keystrokes which he vaguely recognized as something mathematically related. _The Riemann hypothesis? The Reinbach hypothesis?_ Mycroft would know for certain. Maths had always been his elder brother's forte; being able to calculate probabilities and statistics and outcomes in his head was yet another reason he did so well in the racing industry. 

"For future reference," Donovan added, her voice rife with warning, "if I catch you trying to hack my machine again, I'll arrest you for trespassing, and maybe attempted B and E." 

Sherlock scoffed at the threat; he'd been threatened by far more ambitious people. Out of long habit, he reached out to filch one of Donovan's cups of coffee in a fit of pique, the way he would do to aggravate Mycroft whenever his elder brother was being particularly pompous, (though not Anthea; that way lay dislocated fingers and bruised shins). But before he could make contact, Donovan smacked his hand away with impressive speed. 

"Fuck off, Holmes,"Donovan growled. "You can get your own damn coffee. These are _mine_. Canteen's down the hall if you're desperate, or suicidal." 

Sherlock hissed at the stinging in his fingers, but resisted the urge to suck on them to lessen the pain. Donovan's response seemed oddly out of proportion for his transgression. Intrigued, he tilted his head and pursed his lips, deducing the detective for a moment before launching into his observations. "Based on your response earlier, you've experienced quite a bit of casual sexism and racism from your colleagues in the form of gendered expectations and gender-based demands," Sherlock announced. "During the course of your career, you've encountered multiple instances of male coworkers, specifically older males, expecting you to fetch coffee, take notes and perform other menial office chores because you are female, despite your senior rank and case closure rate. In spite of your mother's influence, you adhered to such expectations in the early days of your career, hoping to avoid conflict, which had a negative impact on your advancement prospects. Nowadays, you are hyper-aware of any individual making sexist demands upon you in a workplace and respond forcefully because allowing such sexism to pass unchallenged undermines not only your perceived competence and thus your future career prospects, but the potential of any other female officers." 

"Not a bad job mansplaining," Donovan acknowledged with a sniff, picking up her half-drunk coffee and taking a large slug, grimacing at the apparent heat. "You missed something though. Two somethings, actually," she added, once she had finished swallowing. 

"Oh?" 

"One, you didn't ask," Donovan began, holding up her index finger in emphasis, "and two," she added, holding up the corresponding digit, "there's the fact that it's downright stupid to get between a cop and her morning coffee. The only two professions more dangerous are educators and programmers." 

Sherlock shrugged minutely, conceding Donovan's point. Bodyguards-nee-valets weren't mentioned, but Anthea would probably prefer it that way. She thrived on being inconspicuous, except when Mycroft needed to play her to play an empty-headed secretary as a distraction. Sherlock looked at the paper cup, fighting the urge to sulk. The coffee looked (and smelled) even more tempting now that he'd been denied. He could detect the enticing smoky, caramel notes of an expertly produced Maillard reaction—one that was thankfully free of the contaminating, milky odour of artificial creamer or milk. Unfortunately, was clear that Donovan wasn't simply going to give it to him, but perhaps… He reached down and picked up the oversized box of pastries he'd purchased purely as a cover and then abandoned on the floor. "Trade?" he asked, giving her his most winning smile, the one that Mrs. Hudson had once described as his 'used car man' face. 

Donovan glanced up from the screen and gave him an inscrutable look, one eyebrow rising, before nodding once in agreement. "Trade," she agreed, passing the untouched cup over and selecting a cheese-and-jalapeño sausage kolache from the box that Sherlock politely held open. She stuffed half of the roll into her mouth, biting down, chewing and swallowing quickly, as she finished logging into her computer. 

Perhaps not the most elegant of manners, Sherlock observed distantly, but it was clear that Donovan was a woman accustomed to having to eat in a hurry, consuming whatever options of nourishment—if the Texas version of a sausage butty could be considered nourishment—were available. He opened his mouth, preparing to bombard Donovan with demands for updates, but Donovan held up a hand, forestalling Sherlock's barrage of questions. 

"Look, Holmes," Donovan snapped, "I'm running on about three hours of sleep. Give me fifteen minutes to drink my coffee in peace before I have to do myself for voluntary manslaughter. Alright?" 

"Fine," Sherlock huffed, subsiding with bad grace, recognizing the futility of pushing Donovan for answers before she was ready to talk. 

To amuse himself, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and opened the picture he taken of the enormous fruit-covered, whipped-cream-frosted cake that Juana, the ranch cook, had served to the staff last night. Molly had told him it was a 'Tres Leches' cake, a Mexican speciality named for the four different types of milk the recipe required. Sherlock hadn't bothered to point out that 'tres' meant 'three', not four, being too busy trying to claim a slice from the horde of ranch staff that descended on the dessert like a plague of locusts upon a field of corn. After the first bite, he understood their enthusiasm. 

The large slice of condensed-milk-soaked sponge cake had been rich enough to satisfy even Sherlock's sweet tooth. It was with an almost fiendish grin that he belatedly forwarded the image to his overbearing brother. It was lunchtime in London. Hopefully Mycroft would receive the picture as he was sitting down to eat one of his preferred (admittedly healthy, but dull) luncheons of ham ribollita, courgette 'spaghetti' with rocket pesto, prawn panzanella or summer ratatouille salad. 

A few moments later, his phone chimed with a return image of the rich, Art Deco interior of the P.G.C. Hajenius. Sherlock glared, feeling a surge of envy that his brother was enjoying the culture and beauty of Amsterdam, while Sherlock was exiled to Texas. P.G.C. Hajenius was arguably one of the best tobacconists in the world. The shop contained a variety of pipes, several hundred different brands of tobacco and a fascinating museum of snuff boxes and other tobacco-related paraphernalia. He'd long been interested in visiting, but had yet to find the time. It galled him that Mycroft was almost certainly savoring the rich tastes of Honduran, Nicaraguan and Cuban tobacco while Sherlock was making do with the somewhat stale Marlboros he could purchase in local petrol stations. 

_Bit extravagant, aren't we? Spending 100 quid on a single smoke? SH_

_I prefer quality to quantity, dear brother. M_

_Amsterdam is famous for it, after all. M_

_Gone native, have we? SH_

_You're hardly one to talk, dear brother. M_

_Stale Marlboros? What's next? Spittoons and chewing tobacco? M_

Donovan, meanwhile, continued to click her way through various websites and email messages in what was evidently an established morning routine. Her expression switched between resigned, annoyed, and indifferent as she read. Every so often, she'd pause long enough to take a sip from the coffee cup she still held in a death-grip in her right hand. After approximately ten minutes, she pushed herself away from the keyboard and spun her chair to face Sherlock. "Right," Donovan began without preamble, "now that I'm more-or-less awake—" she glanced sideways at the twenty-four hour, military-style clock mounted on the wall, "—what's this about me needing to add Sterndale to my pool of suspects?" 

Sherlock looked up from his mobile where he was still busily trading insults with Mycroft. "Exactly what I said." 

"Why?" 

"Because your suspicions about equine murder may have merit." 

_"Why?"_

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation at Donovan's stubbornness. "Because, as I mentioned in my previous text—" he held up his phone for emphasis "—there are strong indicators that Sterndale wants Devil's Blaze dead." 

"And that's supposed to convince me of your client's innocence, considering the fact he was her vet?" Donovan asked sarcastically. 

"No," Sherlock shot back, with equal scorn as he returned his phone to his jacket pocket. "It's supposed to widen your pool of suspects." 

_"What_ pool of suspects?" Donovan demanded, throwing her hands up in frustration and giving Sherlock an exasperated look. "The next most obvious suspect is dead. Doctor Sawyer's clinic isn't set up to do the fancy surgeries Doctor Sterndale does, so there's no financial incentive for John Watson there. I spoke with Ross's insurance company about previous claims and I've looked at the Triple C's public records. Ross—like most of the ranchers in the region—has gone into debt because of the drought. The insurance payouts might be the difference between keeping or losing the Triple C. Nothing I've found so far indicates that this is anything other than an open-and-shut case of attempted insurance fraud, and maybe murder, or at least manslaughter if you add Straker's death." 

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock snapped, abruptly irritated with Donovan's lack of imagination and the need to spell out his hypotheses. "It's obvious that Candii Ross didn't hire somebody to murder her horse—the fact that she hired _me_ to investigate should be ample evidence of that fact. I've taken the liberty of examining Candii Ross's financial records and her personal files in addition to my work with Devil's Blaze. Yes, the Triple C is currently in debt, but that's hardly unusual for ranchers or farmers. I don't know how much you know about animal husbandry or ranching, but it's a common-enough annual occurrence for owners to go into debt to purchase the necessary tools and supplies for the year, and then pay the banks back with proceeds in the fall. From a business standpoint, she's clean. She's certainly cutthroat enough to give the average British dowager a run for her machinations and perhaps morally questionable, but there's no evidence in her records of anything criminal. She's also repeatedly voiced her suspicions that somebody is targeting her business. Unfortunately, you're so convinced that this is a straightforward case of attempted equine mortality insurance fraud and that Candii Ross is lying that you have blinded yourself to the anything but the most obvious solution." 

"Then spell it out for me, Holmes," Donovan growled, slamming her cup down with a thump. "What are your theories? Because it strikes me as pretty damn suspicious that Candii Ross keeps saying she's innocent when she's the one who'll be getting a hefty payout." 

"Theorizing without adequate data is an amateur's mistake," Sherlock scolded. "Inevitably, facts are twisted to—" 

"Semantics, Holmes," Donovan interrupted impatiently, cutting Sherlock's lecture short. "I know all about the perils of jumping to conclusions based on circumstantial evidence and prosecutors twisting facts to convict innocent people." The dark expression on her face hinted at something in her past. "You also gave me your 'theories' lecture last time we met," Donovan continued brusquely. "Your _hypotheses_ , then. What makes you suspect sabotage over straightforward fraud?" 

Sherlock's smile was thin. "Detective Donovan, you are clearly aware of the Henry the Hawk equine murder/insurance fraud scandals, as well as the Tommy Burns, Harlow Arlie and Paul Valliere conspiracies that were brought to light in the nineties. Unfortunately, it is equally apparent that you have absolutely have no idea how ruthless the racing industry can be, or how cutthroat Olympic-level equestrian competitors are. Chemical enhancement and sheer human stupidity are admittedly more common in my line of work, but it is amazing what humans are capable of, especially when there are millions of pounds, or yen, or dollars at stake." 

_"Millions?"_ Donovan repeated, her tone disbelieving. 

"In addition to the prestige," Sherlock added, "which is the real grand prize." He tilted his head, seeing that Donovan still wasn't grasping the merciless nature of the racing industry. "Tell me, have you ever heard of the Melba Toastya case?" 

"The what?" 

"The Melba Toastya case," Sherlock repeated. "It was a suspicious equine death that happened in South Africa in 1986." Donovan shook her head and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Melba Toastya was a champion South African-bred Thoroughbred, conservatively insured for ten million pound sterling, or fifteen million, two hundred twenty-eight thousand, two hundred eighty-six dollars," Sherlock informed her bruskly. "He had already won the L'Ormarins Queen's Plate and the Tsogo Sun Spirit, and was the favorite slated to win the Durban July Handicap, the largest and most prestigious race on the African continent. It's an annual event. Betting can run into the hundreds of millions of South African rands. The winning purse for that particular race was five hundred thousand rand." Sherlock glanced upward, performing a few quick calculations. "Converted to American currency, that would have been approximately two hundred eighteen thousand, three hundred forty dollars in 1986. Adjusted for inflation, that would be the modern day equivalent of a four hundred seventy four thousand, six hundred eighty-eight dollars and ninety-four cents prize purse, give or take several hundred dollars, depending on the exchange rate and inflation calculator used. The current prize is considerably larger." 

Donovan blinked, and blinked again, evidently shocked at the amount named. "What happened?" 

"Three days before the race, a panicked Melba Toastya was found in his stall with a shattered right foreleg. The mangled remains of a groom with a bashed-in head were also found in the stall. The broken leg was attributed to the damage the attacking stallion had inflicted on his stall; he'd apparently shattered numerous boards with his hooves while trying to escape. Melba Toastya was ultimately euthanized with a bullet since the racetrack vet that was supposed to be on call couldn't be found—" 

"Wait," Donovan interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm a detective, not a horse trainer, so cut me some slack if this sounds like a stupid question, but you just talked about somebody shooting an animal capable of winning almost a half million dollars? In a single race? Not to mention all those stud fees and whatnot the reporters at the Kentucky Derby talk about? Couldn't they have...I dunno, done some sort of surgery or something to repair the broken leg?" 

"No," Sherlock replied, his tone brooking no argument. "I could give you a detailed lecture about the challenges that a broken leg represents to an equine's unique physiology, such as the way that elastic bones will shatter into deformed shapes, open fractures, infections, laminitis, gangrene caused by insufficient blood supply to affected limbs, pressure sores and sling sores caused by the horse's own weight and the inevitable pneumonia when a horse spends too long lying on its side, but I'd hate to bore you. Suffice to say, performance animal vets have spent years experimenting with different techniques to try and save valuable horses so they can be used for studs if not racing, but the majority of cases involving broken legs still result in speedy euthanasia with the goal of minimizing suffering." 

"Right. Seems weird, but I'll take your word for it," Donovan said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. "Go on, please." 

"As I was saying, the horse was euthanized and an inquest was launched afterwards. Melba Toastya's owner, Mr. Mark Haddon, was immediately suspected because of the insurance payout involved and Mr. Haddon's known financial difficulties. The investigation turned up no link to criminal activity on Mr. Haddon's part, however, and he was ultimately cleared of any suspected wrongdoing." 

"Do you think he did it?" 

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Having reviewed what little information I currently have, I'm more inclined to suspect sabotage myself, especially since the on-call vet, Willem D. Shire was suspiciously absent from his post. His car was later found submerged in the Durban Bay, but his body was never found. Melba Toastya's death left the metaphorical and literal field wide open for the second favorite, Desborough, to run virtually uncontested. Desborough won, earning a sizeable purse for his owners." 

"So...why didn't anybody investigate with the possibility of sabotage? That seems like that's a pretty damn obvious idea," Donovan returned, furrowing her brow. 

"Because even now, it's very difficult to prove, since the owner is often the first suspect, thanks to the insurance monies involved," Sherlock replied with a thin smile. "It's a fairly straightforward matter for a corrupt jockey or groom or trainer to sabotage a horse, and the financial incentives can be...considerable." 

Donovan acknowledged the barb with a sneer, but there was a healthy dose of curiosity intermixed with her skepticism. "So how much are we talking about?" Donovan asked, tilting her head to one side. "According to the fraud cases I read, Tommy 'The Sandman' Burns was paid between $5000 to $40,000 per horse he electrocuted." 

"That's for straightforward murder," Sherlock replied. "Any idiot can swing a crowbar or poison a horse. Sabotage is usually more subtle, since death is not the primary objective and the goal is to avoid leaving a trail for investigators. Depending on the method sought, conspirators can expect to pay $10,000 or more per horse, plus Danegeld." 

Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Danegeld...as in Kipling's "Once you pay them the Danes' gold, you never get rid of the Dane"?" 

Sherlock nodded, his expression grim. "The corrupt racing elite learned a lesson watching Tommy Burns take his revenge on the people who hired and later abandoned him." 

Donovan tipped her head in a form of a shrug, before taking another sip of her coffee. "Okay, so give me an example of sabotage techniques you've encountered so I know what I should be looking for." 

Sherlock bit his tongue, suppressing the impulse to bluntly inform Donovan that she wouldn't be capable of detecting a case of high-level equine sabotage if it painted itself purple and danced naked in front of the police station at noon. The inner voice whispering "bit not good," sounded oddly like John's. "It might be something small, like nicking a tendon so a rival horse goes lame," Sherlock began, holding his hands up for demonstration. "Or jabbing a hoof with nail or other sharp object to cause an abscess. Both are common occurrences and rarely fatal, but they can keep an animal from competing." 

"Go on." 

"Another technique is deliberately poisoning a horse with a toxic plant. Mixing black walnut shavings into a horse's bedding, or slipping traces of Rhododendron into their feed are two effective methods for causing short-term colic, lethargy, muscle tremors or laminitis which are difficult to discover the root cause for, unless the veterinarian in question is very observant. A more insidious tactic is purposely drugging a rival's horse with a banned performance enhancer and getting said rival disqualified for doping. Risky, to be certain, but still effective. But the _truly_ brilliant criminals resort to novel compounds, both for doping and for sabotage. Those cases are Christmas," Sherlock said with relish, "since novel drugs are virtually impossible to detect. Unless you're the world's only Consulting Equestrian Expert," Sherlock concluded, with absolutely no trace of modesty. 

"Humble, much?" Donovan snarked, both eyebrows raised disbelievingly. 

"Why should I be?" Sherlock asked in a puzzled tone. "Any reasonably competent individual can use a standardized enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay or ELISA equine drug test, a thin-layer chromatography TLC test, or better yet a LCMS/GCMS, liquid or gas chromatography/mass spectronomy test to detect unauthorized substances in performance horses—assuming they haven't deleted basic chemistry or laboratory procedures that is—but as effective as those tests are, they all have limits; namely that it is virtually possible to test for something that you don't know you should be looking for. My entire career rests on my ability to detect novel substances, Detective, especially since the criminals are often far ahead of those charged with catching them. I've encountered racehorses that have been intentionally injected with snake venom to deaden pain, and erythropoietin, or EPO, to artificially boost the production of red blood cells—" 

"English, Holmes," Donovan interrupted with a growl, taking another sip of her coffee. 

Sherlock barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes, abruptly missing John's ability to follow the medical jargon, as well as his awed compliments of Sherlock's knowledge. "EPO can increase stamina and speed by boosting the muscle's oxygen supply," he explained, "which is why it happens to be the performance-enhancing drug of choice for world-class cyclists and track athletes. Those are just two examples. There are hundreds of subtly different chemical compounds out there, and new derivatives and concoctions are being developed as we speak. The ability to bypass a urine drug test is almost certainly one of the prime, motivating factors. The ELISA test is both rapid and reasonably sensitive, but since it can result in false-positive results, the protocol for any positive ELISA result is to run the sample through a LCMS or GCMS test. The ability to circumvent the first stage of testing would be a major boon for the drug cheats." 

"You sound like a DEA agent," Donovan observed, leaning back in her chair. "So who else could benefit from a dead horse if it isn't Ross?" 

"How much do you know about how the professional rodeo industry works?" Sherlock asked, pressing his palms together and tipping his head. He raised one eyebrow, looking at Donovan sideways. "Specifically, what do you know about bucking bronco competitions and the financial incentives behind them?" 

Donovan blinked, apparently thrown by the unexpected segue, before shrugging. "Since I've done some research when I was handed this case, probably a bit more than the next cop—Captain Lestrade doesn't count. A bunch of guys with testosterone poisoning try and stay on top of an out-of-control horse for eight seconds hoping to strike it rich. If you ask me, there less-stupid ways to prove how manly you are." 

Sherlock suppressed a wince. Donovan's dismissive summarization was eerily reminiscent of his own, before he'd taken the time to do his research. It wasn't wrong, but neither did it encompass the entire picture. 

"That is a highly simplified description, to be certain, but accurate enough," Sherlock began. "Rodeo competitions are divided into two categories; timed events and rough stock events. Bronco riding is considered a 'rough stock' event and is subdivided into two separate categories: saddleback and bareback riding. Unlike timed events, in which the riders compete against a clock and each other—barrel racing being a classic example—in rough stock events, both the rider and the animal are judged. As you mentioned, the prize money is a significant motivator. Since the action of the horse is almost as important as the skill of the rider, many rodeos allow a competitor to pay a substitution fee to select a different horse if they feel their assigned horse is too 'tame'. There is enormous pressure on stock contractors to secure the most exciting animals possible and the contractors that consistently provide high-quality animals tend to become elite suppliers." 

"That's very interesting, Holmes, but how does that affect the case?" 

"I'm getting to that. The average independent stock contractor makes something between twenty-five thousand to forty-thousand dollars a year, but elite contractors supplying major events such as the National Finals Rodeo or the PRCA Championships make...considerably more." 

Donovan raised an eyebrow. "How much more?" 

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Considering that elite contractors who don't raise their own animals will readily pay two hundred fifty thousand dollars—or more—for proven bloodlines that they then lease to the rodeos, I'll leave you to your deductions." 

Donovan blinked and let out a silent whistle. 

"Becoming an elite contractor is difficult," Sherlock continued, warming up to his topic. "There is a rigorous application process and vetting period. The small number of available slots are highly sought after, since contract turnover is fairly rare. Generally it occurs for one of two reasons. The first is because another supplier has better animals—which, incidentally, is how Candii Ross earned her slot. Her horses have an established reputation for stamina, enthusiastic bucking action and earning high scores independent of the cowboy. Devil's Blaze is the current 'unrideable' frontliner of the Triple C., but his brother, Blazing Feet, is also highly ranked. Their sire, Great Balls of Fire, was similarly notorious." 

Sherlock paused and waited for Donovan to finish coughing. "Are you alright?" 

"I'm fine," Donovan wheezed, sniffing and using a handy napkin to dab up the little bit of coffee she'd snorted. "Keep talking." 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the unhygienic mess she'd made of her desk, but resumed his lecture. "The second is because of animal abuse. Even though the majority of contractors and competitors take excellent care of their animals, a single clip of an animal being beaten is enough to shape public perception against rodeos, in some cases resulting in a total ban of rodeos altogether, the way they are in the UK." 

Donovan grimaced. "Yeah. All it takes is one crooked cop or corrupt judge and well…" She shook her head, instead of finishing the comment. "Never mind. There's a reason why Captain Lestrade and Scotty do the outreach at rodeos and community fundraisers they do," she said instead, taking another sip of coffee before changing the topic. "So rodeos are banned in the UK?" 

"Yes. They were banned in 1934 when Parliament passed the Protection of Animals Act, one of the numerous laws passed in nineteenth and twentieth century London regarding animal welfare." Sherlock tipped his head to one side and shrugged. "Human sensibilities regarding what constitutes as abuse has changed over time, often in relation to how certain behaviors might eventually impact _humans_. The Professional Rodeo Cowboy's Association is quite aware of rodeo's historically brutal past, and also that fewer people actually spend time in close proximity to horses or cattle. They've shifted their focus towards rebranding rodeos as a family-friendly form of entertainment, while simultaneously educating the public about what they entail as part of their long-range business survival plan. Guidelines regarding rodeo animal welfare for all sanctioned events were implemented in the fifties to help quell some of the abuse claims. Public perception remains key, however, which is why _any_ stock contractor convicted of animal abuse or neglect is permanently barred from supplying PRCA-sanctioned events, which brings us to these—" Sherlock unfolded himself from his chair and reached down to pick up the briefcase he'd carried in as part of his disguise as a solicitor. He opened the lid and pulled out a stack of papers, which he passed to Donovan. 

She took them with a puzzled expression. "What are these?" 

"Letters Candii Ross has received from the various professional organizations the Triple C leases bucking strings to. All of them contain warnings that her status as an elite contractor is in peril. The last page is a list of known business rivals, though one or two disgruntled former employees are also named." 

"I've already seen these," Donovan argued. 

"Just read them again, keeping in mind what I've just outlined for you," Sherlock insisted. 

With a huff of annoyance, Donovan acquiesced. Her brown eyes narrowed as she skimmed through the letters, her features set in an expression of suspicion. Setting the letters aside, Donovan focused her attention on the list of names. After a moment, she put the list down to give Sherlock a skeptical look. "So you're...what? Theorizing that instead of Candii Ross trying to murder her horse and collect the insurance money, somebody else hired Sterndale to sabotage Candii Ross's horse to steal her spot as an elite stock contractor?" 

"I think it is a distinct possibility that is worth investigating," Sherlock corrected, privately pleased that Donovan was finally catching up. "I was originally hired to rehabilitate Devil's Blaze considering he is an incredibly valuable business asset, both as a bucking animal and because of the stud fees he commands. But I was also hired to investigate and clear Ms. Ross's reputation, because, regardless of whether or not her prize stallion can be rehabilitated, her position as an elite contractor is now endangered by the abuse allegations." 

Donovan pursed her lips, before giving Sherlock a skeptical look. "So why Sterndale specifically?" 

"Aside from the fact that Sterndale made a ridiculous misdiagnosis that a first-year veterinary student could spot?" Sherlock retorted dryly, dropping his chin and giving Donovan the sardonic look he'd perfected from years of spying on his elder brother and watching Mycroft deal with the anthropomorphic, bipedal, interbred goldfish that plagued their world. "Where would you like me to start? Perhaps with the fact that Sterndale purposely maligned both Straker's and Candii Ross's reputation by insinuating that Straker was abusive towards animals and that Candii Ross permitted it because it produced results? Or perhaps I should mention that Sterndale has a degree in botany, with an emphasis on documenting plants which are toxic to livestock? With that background, he would be perfect candidate to administer a poison that would cause a horse to become dangerously aggressive and then dispose of the evidence under the guise of medical necessity. That he didn't is a testament to John Watson's skill as a veterinarian and his willingness to speak up. I also noticed when I was visiting Sterndale's clinic that he has very expensive tastes." 

"And that matters why?" 

"Time is money. While he treats some horses, it's clear that the majority of his practice caters to bovine performance athletes. Sterndale's also a misogynist. Candii Ross is one of the very few high-level female stock contractors out there, but she deals almost exclusively in horses. It's possible that Sterndale is simply trying to offload a less-profitable client since his focus is more towards bulls and bull-riding and he is tired of having a woman telling him what to do—" 

"Wouldn't be the first time," Donovan quipped sourly. 

"—but Sterndale is also one of the leading performance veterinarians in the Southern United States. A deliberate misdiagnosis for the sake of his ego is a risky proposition. But, as a performance veterinarian, he also has professional ties to most of the stock contractors in the region. Considering the potential financial incentives at stake, it's quite possible that a rival contractor who supplies both equines _and_ bovines approached Sterndale about arranging a bit of murder, with the added bonus of funneling more business Sterndale's way. Bucking bronco competitions can certainly be a lucrative proposition, but bull riding has a wider following among mainstream audiences, not just locally, but internationally." 

"How much are we talking about?" 

"According to my research, the average ranked bull can be worth anywhere between several hundred thousand American dollars to just under a million, with corresponding veterinary care." 

"Huh. I had no idea." 

"If Sterndale's tax returns or bank records show substantial 'gifts,' it could be a strong indicator of his guilt. Likewise, if Candii Ross is replaced as a stock contractor to the PRCA, you should investigate her replacement and see if they have close ties to Sterndale." 

"You want me to obtain confidential bank information from a wealthy, connected businessman who has no reason to cooperate, based solely on your impressions?" Donovan said slowly, her voice rife with skepticism. 

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, raising both eyebrows expectantly. 

"A bit," Donovan retorted with exasperation. "It's not like I can just call up random banks until I find the right one and have them fax me confidential business records! Based on past experience, the moment I contact Sterndale, he's going to lawyer up. I'll have to get a warrant from a judge, and that's going to be tricky since this isn't a drug case or an obvious case of embezzlement. It could take weeks, if not months, since I also have to be able to prove probable cause for the Fourth." 

"Dull." 

Donovan scowled at Sherlock's look of disdain. "I don't know what it's like in the UK, Holmes, but American defense attorneys love it when cops don't follow regulations; it makes it really easy for them to get an entire conviction thrown out on a technicality or civil rights violation," she snarled. "More than one perp has walked because of inadmissible evidence due to unreasonable search-and-seizures." 

Sherlock heaved a sigh even as he pulled out his mobile. Doing things the 'legal' way was so dull and always took too long, he thought sullenly as he tapped out a message to Mycroft's pet hacker. He loathed owing Jim favors, but the man was too valuable a resource to simply abandon, even if he seemed, as Mrs. Hudson would say, "shot in the head". 

_Dear Jim, can you please get me the last twelve months of bank transaction records for Leon Sterndale, DVM? Information attached. SH_

Sherlock waited, flipping his phone idly from hand to hand. There was no telling if Jim was even awake right now. He kept odd hours, fueled by an almost excessive consumption of Tiger Energy Drinks, Jelly Babies and Swizzels' Love Hearts. 

Unexpectedly, however it chimed, and then chimed twice more in quick succession. 

_Hello Sexy! I dreamed about you last night! Jim Moriarty x._

_I just saw your little puzzle. Jim Moriarty x._

_I do love your little challenges, your little games. But what's in it for me? Jim Moriarty x._

"What are you doing?" Donovan asked suddenly, watching Sherlock text. 

"I'm calling in an expert," Sherlock replied absently, his fingers already tapping out a reply. 

_Personal satisfaction? The fact that I'll owe you a favor? Gum? SH_

"An expert?" Donovan demanded, her tone incredulous. " _You're_ calling in an expert? Who? Why? You'd better not be doing anything illegal—" 

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to," Sherlock snapped as he typed. "It makes it much more difficult for you to plead the First, or Fifth, or Seventeenth, or whatever it is you Americans plead when you don't want to incriminate yourselves. If you're concerned about this impacting your investigation, don't be. It won't be tied in any way to you." 

Donovan did not look convinced, but Sherlock ignored her glower of distrust as he read Jim's response. 

_Grape Super Bubble, Sexy. Plus my usual fee. Jim Moriarty x._

Sherlock scowled, but "needs must" as it were. Keeping Jim happy enough to do him 'little favors' was a small price to pay for the man's research skills. Even if conversations with the man made his flesh crawl. He tapped out his reply. 

_IOU. Tea at Kensington Palace when I return? SH_

_No. Tower Hill. Better apple cake. Jim Moriarty x._

_Fine. SH_

_Looking forward to it, Sexy! Let me pop two Tigers and I'll see what I can do! Jim Moriarty x._

"You done texting?" Donovan asked. 

"For the moment," Sherlock replied, tucking his phone away with a grimace. 

"Right. So what if it turns out that Sterndale's records don't show anything incriminating? What next?" Donovan challenged. "Are we back to square one?" 

"No. It's clear that Devil's Blaze has been dosed with some sort of compound," Sherlock snapped. "His records showed abnormally high adrenaline, cortisol and testosterone levels—all hormones associated with stress and aggression, which could explain the behavior, but not the reason for it. According to the veterinary records, Doctor Watson had to use a larger-than-recommended cocktail of xylazine and Dormosedan to sedate Devil's Blaze at the fairgrounds and continued to utilize sedatives while Devil's Blaze was at the clinic to keep the horse contained. If Sterndale's not behind it, the next most logical suspect is Kitty Riley, or some other fanatical animal rights activist." 

"Animal rights activists?" Donovan repeated. "Why the hell would you suspect them? I mean, I know what Kitty Riley posted on her blog, but there's nothing else linking her to Candii Ross." 

"The timing seems a bit too coincidental, what with the letters Candii Ross received, Straker's death and the photographs of Devil's Blaze that appeared on Kitty Riley's website." Sherlock argued. "There are any number of animal welfare activists convinced of the innate cruelty of rodeos. Kitty Riley's blog, 'PRESS', short for 'Preventing Rodeo Equines from Suffering Senselessly' is just one example. PETA, and Showing Animals Respect and Kindness, or SHARK is another. I suggest you look it up. They rely heavily on emotional appeals, rather than logic. SHARK has an interesting little handout with pictures showing animals in various contorted poses depicting alleged cruelty. Their website also lists a running tally of accidental animal injuries and deaths that allegedly occurred during rodeos, and footage of the rare fatality. Planned protests at upcoming events are also listed on the website, along with other calls to 'take action'. Their members are adamant in their beliefs that rodeo animals are purposely tortured with sharp spurs, electric prods, straps to crush their genitalia, etcetera, despite all evidence to the contrary." 

Donovan pursed her lips, her expression troubled. "But why would they deliberately injure an animal? Wouldn't that go against their whole cause?" 

Sherlock snorted. "Fanatics everywhere have proven throughout history that it's perfectly acceptable to sacrifice lives or morals for a so-called higher cause. What's that saying by Charette, the famous Royalist general of La Vendée? "Omelets are not made without breaking eggs"? Kitty Riley is perfectly willing to slander individuals to further her cause. There's a video clip on her website of John Watson performing an emergency euthanasia on horse that that was fatally gored by a bull at a rodeo several months ago." Sherlock's lip curled at the memory as he shared the results of his research. "She's an idiot. The moron has the gall to claim that John Watson needlessly traumatized the animal by shooting it between the eyes, instead of giving it a peaceful end by lethal injection. Never mind that the horse's intestines were hanging out, the animal was panicking and presenting a danger to the rodeo clowns and the bull rider, and that a gunshot was the fastest, most humane and responsible choice available. Deliberately mixing yew clippings, alkaloid-heavy locoweeds, swainsonine-containing plants or opioids such as morphine into an animal's feed would be a fairly straightforward way of guaranteeing they'd have something worthy of putting on their website. Since rodeo animals aren't routinely tested for drugs at small events, the chances of getting caught are virtually nil." 

Donovan tapped her pen against her desk, plainly lost in thought. After a moment, she looked up and gave Sherlock a scrutinizing look. "Speaking of getting caught...what about John Watson?" 

"What about him?" 

Donovan held her hands out. "You provided all these reasons why you think Sterndale could be behind Devil's Blaze's behavior—money, drugs, his ties to stock contractors. Well Watson travels to different events, so he probably has ties as well. Even though Watson is Candii Ross's new vet, Ms. Ross is paying Sarah Sawyer's clinic, not John Watson directly, so he won't be making nearly as much as I thought he would. But who's to say he wouldn't jump at a chance to make a quick couple grand? Especially since he's in the perfect position to substitute blood samples to guarantee a clean result? According to Doctor Sawyer, Doctor Watson's a bit of an insomniac. She also mentioned that Doctor Watson often says late at the clinic, sometimes even overnight if there's a particularly sick horse that needs monitoring." 

"It's possible," Sherlock admitted, mercilessly suppressing the faint pang he felt. Illogical, really. John Watson was a suspect, guilty until proven innocent. His gregarious, easy-going nature made it easy to overlook the sharp intelligence in his gaze. There was no need to succumb to sentiment, even if John's laughing blue eyes, competence and obvious appreciation for Sherlock's own intelligence made his company a pleasure, rather than a burden. "I was present when Doctor Watson was consulting with Sterndale about some abnormally aggressive cattle he'd been treating. Like Sterndale, Doctor Watson's knowledgeable about plants that cause adverse reactions in various forms of livestock and their symptoms—particularly those that produce aggression in horses," Sherlock added as an afterthought. "He mentioned several specific plants, including wooly locoweed, by name. There's also the way that he has gone out of his way to manufacture excuses to spend time in my proximity." 

The last part was especially damning. Sherlock was fully aware of the 'shy and virginal' persona he was projecting to appeal to John's chivalrous nature, but he was also aware that his acerbic wit and fairly caustic personality kept bleeding through, despite his best efforts. People never flirted with him or offered favors without an ulterior motive in mind. Bitter experience had taught him that. Why should John Watson be any different? 

Sherlock blinked and forced his concentration back to the matter at hand. "Of the two, Sterndale's behavior is more suspect," he concluded, seeing Donovan's lingering skepticism. 

"I'll keep that in mind," Donovan said grudgingly, "but if I see anything strange, I'm hauling him in for questioning." 

"Fair enough." 

Donovan looked up at the clock and made a face. "Moving along," she began as she picked up the top file, labeled P11235813 - COPY and shoved it towards Sherlock. "We've got a bit under an hour before our video conference call with Brenda Tregennis. Officer Gregory, from the Flagstaff PD, finally sent me a copy of the police report, his witness statements, scene photographs and a copy of the equine necropsy for the barrel racer's horse. Only took him a few weeks to get it to me, the arrogant prick," Donovan added in an undertone, plainly not meant to be overheard. 

Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement as he leaned forward to accept the file, before he schooled his features back to bland patience. 

"Read through that; get yourself acquainted with the facts. I want to know what you think," Donovan continued in a more normal voice. "I did a bit of digging while I was waiting for Officer Gregory to get back with me. I managed to get my hands on a copy of the roster. Watson's name isn't on the list and according to his boss, Doctor Sawyer, he was scheduled to be at a 4H event that day in another state. Unless he's working as a vet under an assumed name or something, it's probably pretty safe to assume he didn't have anything to do with the mare freaking out. As odd as I still think it is how fast he got Devil's Blaze sedated, he may have just be damn good at what he does, the way Greg mentioned." 

"Mmmm," Sherlock replied vaguely, already opening the file Donovan had handed him. He decided to refrain from mentioning Molly's comment about John's presence at the fairgrounds just prior to Devil's Blaze going mad. He wanted to investigate it in private before Donovan or any other police authorities barged in and took over. Molly's passing remark about eye inflammation and unusual spookiness in a police horse seemed too suspicious to be purely coincidental, considering the timing and inflamed sclera that Devil's Blaze also exhibited. If John _was_ accepting bribes to compensate for his financial troubles, proving it would be a fairly straightforward affair. It would be the easiest thing in the world to arrange a date, drug John with Ketamine or another horse tranquilizer, drive them back to John's apartment and then hack his computer while John was unconscious. He didn't mind asking Jim to investigate Sterndale—the man was undeniably an arse—but the thought of Jim turning his lascivious, predatory gaze on John was repugnant. 

Especially if it turned out that John Watson _was_ innocent. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust at the betrayal of his emotions and turned his attention back to the file. His eyebrows rose and fell in a quick, flicking movement as he took in the sparse contents. It was much thinner than the one Mycroft had assembled for him regarding Devil's Blaze, though whether it was because of the lesser value of the horse or lack of commitment by the investigating officer, he could not discern. 

Mycroft had already sent him a copy of the necropsy report and Doctor Mortimer's records concerning the dead mare, but he hadn't yet read the police report or witness statements. At the back of the folder were some miscellaneous documents that Donovan had evidently assembled: printouts of newspaper articles mentioning the attack, the aforementioned veterinarian roster and copies of emails she'd exchanged. 

Sherlock picked up the envelope marked 'PHOTOGRAPHS' first, frowning a little at the thinness of the packet. He slid a thumbnail under the flap, popping it free and shook the contents free, his frown deepening. 

There were only five pictures. 

All of them were taken after the fact. The first showed the exterior of the damaged stall door. The next two captured the interior of the temporary stall and the traces of blood. The final two photographs were of the dead mare. One showed the mare lying on her side. The other was a closeup, showing the gunshot wound to the horse's skull. A nitrate-clad hand in the picture was pulling back the mare's lips to show her blood-stained teeth. 

Still frowning, Sherlock pulled his magnifier free and bent forward to study the images more closely. 

"See something?" Donovan asked, looking up from her screen, her attention caught by Sherlock's movement. 

"The mare broke the tie rope," Sherlock said slowly, "she also tried to rear, based on the scuffing. That's...unusual. And dangerous." He tilted his head and flipped back to the image of the mare lying on her side. "Hmm…" 

"What?" 

"The only sign of injury—besides the obvious cause of death and the damage to the mare's forelegs—are some swollen bruises with broken skin on the head and neck, exactly where you'd instinctively strike an animal that attacked you." 

"Self defense?" 

"Almost certainly," Sherlock replied, brow still furrowed in concentration as he studied the rest of the stall, noting the scarring on the boards from the mare's hooves and the scattered droplets of dried blood on the walls and floor. Some equine, some undoubtedly human. 

"So...what does that mean?" Donovan asked, draining her travel mug with a grimace before standing up and beginning to fuss with the coffee maker. 

"I'm not sure yet," Sherlock replied thoughtfully, setting the photographs aside,"but my first impression is that something significant either frightened or upset that mare," he continued, picking up the police report and beginning to thumb through it. 

Officer Gregory was patently unimaginative, but had the benefit of being through. The initial report was a fairly standard dog attack investigation form that had been relabeled to read 'horse'. Hand-written injury locations were marked on the back and front of the genderless human figure pictured on the front page's bottom right-hand corner. It outlined the date, time, location, and basic details about the victim and witnesses. The next page was a more-detailed typewritten document that incorporated verbatim statements from the witnesses, a more detailed description of the scene and the actions undertaken at the time. There were also a good half-dozen witness statements that had been collected from the attending paramedics, the veterinarian that had responded, Fitzroy Simpson, (the heroic rodeo clown responsible for pulling Brenda Tregennis to safety after her horse attacked her), and other would-be rescuers. 

One of Sherlock's eyebrows twitched microscopically as he belatedly connected the name Fitzroy Simpson to the sarcastic rodeo clown he'd previously observed at the fairgrounds. At the very least, it seemed highly unlikely that there were two rodeo clowns christened with the unfortunate moniker of 'Fizzy' and a predilection towards approaching panicking horses. Sherlock pursed his lips in thought as he continued reading; he would have to arrange an 'accidental' encounter so he could subtly interrogate the man about what he'd seen and heard. 

According to Simpson's statement, he'd just happened to be walking by when he'd heard the teenager's screams and had come running. He'd credited his bull-fighter reflexes for beating the horse back long enough so he could get the girl out of the stall safely, and had then called 911, though why he hadn't bothered to call for assistance first was a bit odd. 

The mare had gone for the girl's neck and shoulder with her teeth, doing considerable damage to the sternomastoid muscle, external jugular vein, bone and skin. Simpson said he'd used one of his scarves to try and stanch the bleeding while waiting for help to arrive. Fortunately for Miss Tregennis, on-site paramedics and ambulances were standard safety precautions at rodeo events, which was likely the reason Miss Tregennis was still alive. 

The worst thing, according to Mr. Simpson, was the way the screaming mare had kept lunging and trying to break through her stall, teeth snapping at anybody foolish enough to try and get close enough to help her. The other witness statements reflected similar sentiments, including the descriptors 'crazed' 'loco' 'vicious' and 'psycho' and "ain't never seen a mare act like that". A fairground vet had tried to inject the mare with a sedative, but he hadn't been able to get close enough to use the jab. When the temporary stall began to come apart under the mare's prolonged attack, a second officer had drawn her service weapon and shot the mare point-blank in the head, citing public safety as the justification in her incident report. The mare's body had been removed from the scene and taken to clinic for a necropsy. An addendum to the police report mentioned the negative rabies result, but nothing else. 

Wrinkling his nose in annoyance, Sherlock flipped through to the necropsy report. It didn't reveal anything new. The clinic that had performed it had plainly been focusing on obvious issues that could cause a horse to spontaneously attack—abuse, infectious diseases, cerebral lesions, brain tumors, obvious poisons and drugs. All tests had come back negative, the same way they had for Devil's Blaze. There were traces of extremely mild smoke inhalation and irritated lung and nasal tissues, but once again, something that hardly unusual for an animal kept in a barn or periodically exposed to secondhand smoke during competitions. The only observation of interest was the same one he'd noted previously: that the dead horse's remaining sclera was incredibly inflamed, with no obvious cause. 

The same way it had been with Devil's Blaze. 

Sherlock set the file aside and folded his hands together, resting his index fingers against his bottom lip in thought. He'd already gone through Doctor Mortimer's records with a fine-toothed comb, looking for any indicators of medical problems, such as neuroaxonal dystrophy or equine degenerative myelopathy or treatment for eye problems, but found nothing. There was also nothing indicating past cases of accidental poisoning by locoweed, Jimson weed or any other plants known to have a neurodegenerative effect on horses. There was nothing indicating a history of hormonal disorders or brain tumors. The mare was also fully up-to date on all of her vaccinations. In short, the mare was in the pinnacle of health, exactly the way he would expect from an animal owned by an avid amateur competitor. 

He was still lost in thought when Donovan locked her computer screen and pushed back from her desk. "Come on, Holmes. It's almost nine. Let's move to the conference room." She stood up and picked up the pot. "Want a top off?" Donovan asked, holding the mostly-full carafe up. 

Sherlock blinked, abruptly summoned out of his Mind Place. He looked at the pot of coffee Donovan had apparently brewed while he'd been thinking and shook his head. He preferred whole bean Caffe Nero or illy. He wasn't quite desperate enough to stoop to drinking pre-ground Maxwell House when he'd been awake for barely eighteen hours. 

Donovan shrugged and poured the contents into her to-go cup. She set the empty pot to one side, switched off the burner, and then scooped up the file Sherlock had been studying, a blank legal pad, and a tape recorder. One pencil and a spare pen were tucked behind her ear, while another pencil was clamped between her teeth. All without losing her grip on her caffeine source. The ease with which she juggled the multitude of items as she swept out the door hinted at past experience as either a Cirque du Soleil performer or a bibliophile. 

Sherlock picked up his briefcase and followed, his long legs easily keeping up with the rapid tattoo of Donovan's heels as she strode down the hallway. 

It was a fairly lengthy walk to the conference room, past the common area, down one floor and around a corner. Apparently the architect had wanted to minimize the accidental overflow of noise from the common work areas, or else they wanted to reduce the number of prying eyes observing inhabitants. 

The conference room was cheap-motel-bland, down to the mass-produced furnishings, boring carpet and tastefully inoffensive corporate artwork. Sherlock sneered once at the artificially stylized desert landscape, before turning his attention to his briefcase. He quickly pulled out the photographs and articles he'd compiled, arranging them neatly to the side where he could easily retrieve them. 

Donovan, meanwhile, wasted no time in setting up the computer and tape recorder for the interview, quickly plugging in the necessary cables and hitting the 'record' button. "Test. Test. No man is above the law and no man is below it." Donovan recited. She stopped the machine and rewound the tape before pressing 'play'. Her recorded voice came through clearly. 

"Chomsky?" Sherlock asked, hazarding a guess. 

"Roosevelt," Donovan corrected. "I don't much care for some of Chomsky's opinions." The computer pinged and she quickly toggled the mouse to activate the screen and accept the call. 

The screen resolved to show a young, heavy-set man with ruddy skin, clad in a dark blue, short-sleeved uniform. His fair hair was cropped close in a buzz cut that emphasized the square shape of his head. The officer looked from Sherlock to Donovan, visibly trying to figure out who was in charge. "Detective Donovan?" he asked crisply, addressing Sherlock. 

Donovan's lips tightened briefly, but that was the only sign of irritation. "That would be me," Donovan said calmly, raising her chin and giving the officer on the screen a politely edged smile. "Are you Officer Gregory?" 

The man on screen blinked, noticeably taken aback, but he made a valiant effort to recover, even as his skin darkened in a painful looking flush. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry about that, ma'am. Your email just had your first initial, instead of your name." 

"Mmm," Donovan hummed noncommittally. "This is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes. He'll be joining us for the interview today." 

Officer Gregory gave Sherlock a puzzled look, clearly taking in Sherlock's bespoke suit. "Are you a lawyer or insurance adjuster, Mr. Holmes?" 

"I'm a Consulting Equestrian Expert," Sherlock corrected firmly. "I specialize in diagnosing unusual behavioral issues and detecting novel doping compounds in horses. There are enough similarities in the symptoms displayed by both Miss Tregennis's horse and my client's horse to be worth investigating. I'm hoping Miss Tregennis can offer more insight." 

Officer Gregory nodded dubiously. "Well, they'll be here any moment and we can get started." The two cops spent a few more moments exchanging trivial comments about the weather until a knock at the door heralded the appearance of their witness. 

The new arrivals took their seats and Sherlock tilted his head, taking in the details of the girl sitting at the other end of the video connection. 

Brenda Tregennis was tall for a thirteen year old, all long limbs that looked out of proportion on a girl, really, but Sherlock could see the evidence of muscles in her deceptively slight frame and calluses caused by years worth of riding. Her shoulder-length, feathery crop of blond hair was neatly pulled back into a simple ponytail. Practical, rather than especially fashionable. Abrasions and bruises in hues of brown, yellow and sickly green still marred her freckled skin. A thick wad of protective bandaging was still covering her neck and left shoulder, distorting the line of her oversized shirt and marking the place where the mare's teeth had sunk deep, tearing the muscle and skin and breaking bone. The blue and green flannel shirt was patterned in a style vaguely reminiscent of the MacKenzie tartan, and clearly too large for its wearer. A woman's shirt, rather than a girl's. It was also old, and well worn, with at least two visible patches; one where something had ripped the shoulder, and another where a button had been torn off and inexpertly reattached. A thin, very faint pale line circled her neck, marking the spot where a necklace usually rested. A highly sentimental piece, if it was capable of creating a tan line, Sherlock noted dispassionately. Either the chain had been broken during the attack and lost, or it had been purposely removed because of the bandages. 

The man beside her was every inch the stereotypical rancher. His skin was deep bronze, the already-rich colour darkened by the harsh Southwest sun. His features bore the battered, weatherworn stamp of a man who had spent the majority of his life outdoors battling the elements. His salt-and-pepper hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, the former just barely visible underneath the battered hat. It was pinched in a different crease, one that Sherlock recognized from his studies of different cowboy hat styles as a 'Telescope crease', or 'Gambler's' Hat.' It was a style better suited to the hot clime of Southwest then Sherlock's own 'Montana' crease hat style. The gold wedding ring on the man's left hand was highly polished, and the visibly swollen knuckles likely made removal difficult. A matching ring hung on a chain around the man's neck. So, a widower and his daughter. The daughter was likely following in her mother's footsteps as a barrel racer. 

"Miss Tregennis? Mr. Tregennis? My name is Detective Sally Donovan, with the White-Collar Unit of the Amarillo Police Department," Donovan began, purposely focusing her attention on the teenager. "This is my colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a Consulting Equestrian Expert," she added with a nod to indicate Sherlock. "We appreciate you and your father taking the time to meet with us today." 

The girl nodded and sniffed, barely even glancing at Sherlock. 

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance at the tedious prattle, but before he could say anything, the thin point of one of Donovan's heels came down to rest against the top of his foot, a clear, nonverbal warning to remain silent. 

Or else. 

"I'm very sorry to learn about Cream Soda's death," Donovan continued, her voice striking an effective balance between 'professional' and 'compassionate.' "I know it's a terrible thing to lose a friend, and I know this is probably going to be upsetting to discuss, but we need your help." 

"But why?" Mr. Tregennis asked, speaking up for the first time. "What could you possibly learn from interviewing my daughter?" 

Donovan opened her mouth to answer, but Sherlock spoke first. "I'm currently rehabilitating a horse that is exhibiting behaviors similar to what was described in the news articles regarding your daughter's attack." 

Mr. Tregennis looked puzzled, clearly thrown by Sherlock's British accent, but what he asked was "are you a horse therapist?" 

"After a fashion," Sherlock replied dismissively. "My speciality, however, is diagnosing the reason behind a sudden change in an animal's behavior without an obvious explanation. Like foul play." 

Brenda Tregennis looked up sharply at that, her expression somewhere between frightened and hopeful as she stared at Sherlock. "Foul play? You think somebody else might have hurt Cream Soda? That her death wasn't my fault?" 

~*~ 


	12. A Latte Questions

~*~

"Of course not," Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes and waving a hand dismissively, not even attempting to hide his impatience.

"But, but how can you _tell_?" Brenda insisted, leaning forward as much as her healing injuries would allow.

Sherlock blinked. The question struck him as odd. He raised an eyebrow as he studied the figure on the screen, taking in her body language. 

Brenda was biting her lip and twisting her hands together nervously as she stared at him, an almost imploring expression on her face. Both the hand-twisting and lip-biting were signs of apprehension, possible attempts at obfuscation. He'd seen the same behavior demonstrated countless times by idiots who'd hired him to correct an issue and then lied or excused the way their own actions had contributed to their horse's problem behavior. 

But what could Brenda be trying to hide? And why was she so insistent on finding out if somebody else was to blame for Cream Soda's death? 

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock began mentally replaying Brenda's question against the reports and photos he'd already studied. He'd pointed out the broken tie rope and the defensive wounds the mare had sustained to Donovan, as well as voicing his suspicions that something had frightened or angered Cream Soda. While unlikely, it was possible that the mare was simply extremely barn-sour (he'd have to inquire). He knew from his Work that some equines panicked whenever they were placed in a strange stall, but it would be an unusual behavioral issue for a horse that traveled extensively. In light of the negative rabies test and the lack of abuse evidence, drugs or poison were the most likely explanation for Cream Soda's behavior, but what if there was more to it than that?

There was only one way to find out.

Donovan would almost certainly object, but the ends justified the means. More importantly, he didn't have time to waste coddling the feelings of others. 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and flicked his eyes up and down, quickly supplementing his initial impressions with the information he'd researched earlier and then let his observations fly. "The same way I can tell your mother was a barrel racer, that your dead horse was the key to your victories and that you secretly resented Cream Soda's increasing age and its detrimental effect on your barrel racing prospects. I _observed_ it," he replied bluntly.

"Holmes—" Donovan began warningly.

"Mr. Holmes—" Mr. Tregennis growled.

"That's a lie!" Brenda protested shrilly as she jerked backwards, interrupting them both. "I don't know what you're talking about! I didn't resent her!"

"Oh please," Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes and unleashing his observations in a rapid stream. "Don't bother trying to deny it. You're a barrel racer—an ambitious one, I might add—determined to follow in your late mother's footsteps, perhaps even surpass her, considering you started competing seriously at her behest when you were barely six. You're wearing earrings that signify your membership in the both the National Barrel Horse Association and the Women's Professional Rodeo Association—two organizations which host high-level competitions for minors in addition to their events for adults. You're also well-known enough on the rodeo circuit that members of 4-H clubs in other states are wondering how they can help you buy a replacement horse. Not surprising, really. It's quite a feat to win the American Semi-Finals Rodeo before you've even gone through puberty. It must have been quite a blow to your ego to go from winning regularly to not even placing in higher-level events over the last year."

Tears started in Brenda's eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to refute Sherlock's observations, but Sherlock steamrolled over her objections before she could get the words out. 

"Admittedly, a good portion of your early success is due to your own work ethic and talent. You didn't develop the muscles in your forearms or the calluses on your hands by watching the telly. There is also a distinct freckle line on your forehead caused by the helmet you wear while practicing outside, but Cream Soda's contribution to your victories shouldn't be overlooked either. As your mother's preferred mount, she had the advantage of years of training and competition. There is an old adage about how 'practice makes perfect.' A recent study of the Hong Kong racing circuit by Bill Benter by showed that the number of times a horse ran a race on a particular track was the most significant factor in predicting whether or not it would win. This same trait was evidenced by your late horse," Sherlock continued, as tears began to trickle down Brenda's cheeks. "A YouTube clip from several years ago shows Cream Soda completing a race in a respectable fifteen point two seconds by herself after you fell off while rounding the first barrel—" 

"I didn't—"

"—which would have resulted in a second-place placement for that particular competition, had her run not been disqualified due to your inability to maintain your seat." Sherlock added mercilessly, ignoring Brenda's attempt at a protest. "Rider size and weight are additional factors. The racing industry utilizes the 'Weight for Age' or WFA scale to ensure that horses are not given unfair advantages or handicaps when racing by setting weight standards for jockeys and tack, but barrel racers are exempt from this practice. You are much smaller than your mother was; the difference in weight on Cream Soda's back is appreciable and no doubt contributed to your success, since the lighter the rider the faster a horse can run. Unfortunately, you have recently experienced a growth spurt. Your increased mass, combined with Cream Soda's advancing age was beginning to become a problem. You likely pressured your father for a new horse, but he refused. Money troubles perhaps? I'm given to understand that the ongoing drought has hit ranchers in the region hard. Or perhaps he didn't see the need. Your mother was the barrel racer, not him." 

"Hey now," Mr. Tregennis interjected, his annoyance clear. "My finances are none of your business, mister. I know how much Linda paid for her horse, and it weren't cheap. Cream Soda was a perfectly sound animal with championship bloodlines."

Sherlock snorted. "For trail rides and amateur divisions perhaps, but not much else. The average age of a serious competitor's horse is somewhere between four and fourteen years old. By contrast, Cream Soda was closer to twenty-three, perhaps twenty-five, judging from the Galvayne's groove on her upper corner incisors, the roughly eighty degree angle on her incisors and the white hairs present on her muzzle. She really should have been retired. I've looked at the event records. Over the past year, your daughter's best competition times have increased by several tenths of a second or—in in some cases, several seconds—leading her to place fourth, sometimes even fifth in divisions that she previously might have won if she'd managed to achieve the same speeds from three years ago. The difference is not enough to be an appreciable handicap in amateur or local barrel-racing competitions—" 

"Holmes," Donovan hissed again, her lips thinning in response to Sherlock's deliberate provocation. "This isn't helping—"

"—but it's certainly a concern for individuals competing regionally or nationally," Sherlock concluded scathingly, before returning his attention to Brenda. "Going from winning to losing over the last few years, shame at disappointing your late mother's memory, horse getting older, of course you resented her. She—" 

"How dare you talk to my daughter that way—" Mr. Tregennis interrupted, cutting Sherlock's tirade short. 

"Um, Mr. Holmes, that really isn't appropriate—" Officer Gregory began nervously.

"Oh shut up," Sherlock snapped, turning his focus from Brenda to the hapless police officer. "If you were even moderately capable of performing a thorough investigation, you wouldn't be—" 

"That's it," Donovan snapped under her breath, reaching out for the keyboard. "I'm sorry. If you would excuse us for just a minute," Donovan apologized through gritted teeth to the two furious adults and the shell-shocked teenager sniffling on the other end of the screen. She stabbed the 'mute' button on the computer and immediately rounded on Sherlock. "Holmes," Donovan began, her voice deadly sweet, "I am allowing you to sit in on this interview as a courtesy. So unless you want to find yourself arrested for abuse and or harassment charges, I suggest you either apologize to our witness, shut up, or both."

"That is a mutually contradictory demand that is technically impossible for me to do," Sherlock pointed out reasonably, giving Donovan a sardonic look.

"Damnit Holmes—" Donovan growled, pinching the bridge of her nose between her left thumb and forefinger, indicating a brewing headache. She took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out between her lips in a controlled stream of air that hissed softly. "We need her information. You were the one that pointed out the similarities between the two attacks. If they _are_ related then her testimony might prove vital to solving this bloody case, but you showing off and intimidating the witness is _not_ going to help us get answers any faster."

"I haven't said anything untrue," Sherlock retorted indignantly. "Furthermore, if she's that frightened of the truth, then she's clearly hiding something—just look at the way she refuses to meet my eyes and the way she keeps looking down at her hands!"

"Of course she's refusing to meet your eyes!" Donovan shot back, leaning forward to glare at Sherlock. "She's bloody intimidated by you! She's a thirteen-year-old girl who's lost her Mum and you just told her that her horse was the reason she kept winning and her father's too cheap to buy her a new one. That was uncalled for, Holmes; the least you can do is apologize for being a complete arse!"

"Oh fine," Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes. The sudden inclusion of British vernacular in Donovan's vocabulary was a fair indicator of how thin Donovan's temper was stretched. Unfortunately, the detective's insistence on maintaining a sense of professional decorum meant that he was already losing the rhythm of his interrogation. He needed to act quickly to catch Brenda while she was still emotionally compromised—and therefore less likely to lie. Reaching out, he restored the sound before Donovan could do more than squawk in outrage. "Miss Tregennis, I apologize for upsetting you," Sherlock informed the teary-eyed teenager brusquely, ignoring the way that both Officer Gregory and Brenda's father were glaring at him. "That was not my intent. Rest assured, I am sure you took excellent care of your dead horse. I am, however, _exceedingly_ curious as to why you think you may have contributed to her rather violent and untimely death. You don't strike me as the type of rider who takes out her anger and disappointment at not placing first on her steed. Nor are you stupid enough to deliberately hurt your Golconda, your 'golden goose' to use American vernacular. Clearly you feel guilty about something or else you wouldn't even be asking the question. What was it? Did you slip something into her feed to make her run faster? Did you put a burr under her saddle? Quit blubbering and tell me!"

"Because I hit her just before she attacked me!" Brenda confessed in a broken wail, drowning out Donovan's outraged hiss of _'Holmes!'_ and drawing looks of shock from the rest of the adults present. 

_"Why?"_ Sherlock demanded harshly, leaning forward and staring intently at Brenda, as if he could pry the answers out of her skull by sheer willpower alone. 

"Be...because I lost my temper. She kept acting up and refusing to stand still while I was grooming her. And then some guy talking loudly on his cell phone and smoking a joint or something walked by while I was picking up the body brush and she kicked at me. I screamed 'NO!' and smacked her as punishment, only instead of backing off like she should have, she freaked out and attacked me. And somebody filmed it and posted it online and people kept leaving the most horrible comments about how death was too good for a horse abuser like me. And they're right, because if I hadn't hit her and scared her in the first place she'd still be alive—" Brenda's speech dissolved into incoherent sobs as she buried her face in her father's shoulder, visibly overwhelmed by Sherlock's deductions and her own confession.

Mr. Tregennis started and began to pat his daughter's back soothingly, splitting his focus between comforting his daughter and glaring at Sherlock. Officer Gregory looked between Donovan, Sherlock and the Tregennises obviously wondering what course of action to pursue next.

"Great, Holmes," Donovan commented in a sotto voice as she folded her arms and glared at Sherlock. Brenda's noisy sobs were audible over the computer. "You just reduced a teenage girl to hysterical tears. Did you hear a word I—"

Sherlock ignored her, his mouth opening in a small 'oh' of sudden insight. He'd already noted the broken tie-ring and the attempt to rear. Brenda's use of the word 'scared' as opposed to 'angry' was also a clue. It wasn't unusual for a cornered horse to attack a perceived threat; Brenda's counterproductive attempts at discipline by yelling and striking the frightened horse almost certainly exacerbated the problem. When a horse couldn't flee a threat, fight became the only viable option. The question was what had caused the mare to become skittish in the first place? Could it have had something to do with scent of the smoke? The necropsy reports for Cream Soda mentioned extremely mild traces of smoke inhalation and irritated lung and nasal tissues, and it struck him as suspicious that somebody was smoking inside of a barn. Sherlock leaned forward to demand more detail from the sobbing witness, but before he could say anything, Donovan kicked him in the ankle.

Hard.

Sherlock winced. Donovan's heels were surprisingly solid and pointed and it felt like he'd just been kicked by a colt. Thanks to Anthea, he knew that steel-toed high-heels existed, but he hadn't thought they were available for purchase outside of a high-end, bespoke tailor, such as Kingsman. He shot her an affronted look, annoyed at the interruption of his interrogation.

"Shut it Holmes," Donovan ordered in an undertone replete with menace. "This is your last warning. I'm in charge of this case, not you, and this has gone on long enough. Mr. Tregennis, Officer Gregory, I apologize for the conduct of my colleague," Donovan continued, raising her voice to address the other adults. Her tone switched from 'threat' to 'supplicating' with a speed and skill that Sherlock couldn't help but grudgingly admire. "The case we're investigating has us all stressed, but that's no excuse for Mr. Holmes making your daughter cry, Mr. Tregennis, or his unprofessional conduct."

"I should think not," Mr. Tregennis said hotly, looking up from where he was pressing a handkerchief into Brenda's hands. "I don't care how much of a so-called 'expert' your colleague is, or how important your case is. We're not crooks, no matter what that man's implying," Mr. Tregennis continued, shooting a dark look at Sherlock. "I'm of half a mind to leave right now, if this is how you're going to treat us."

"And I wouldn't blame you—either of you," Donovan agreed diplomatically, tilting her head to include Brenda while making a conciliatory gesture with both hands. "But I would hope you wouldn't, because we frankly need your help." Donovan waited a moment, making eye contact with Mr. Tregennis, before speaking again. "As Mr. Holmes previously mentioned, there are some striking similarities between the case we're investigating and Officer Gregory's incident report. Specifically how a _very_ loved and _very_ well taken care of horse suddenly attacked the person grooming it. Miss Tregennis was lucky—the other person was killed. Mr. Holmes believes that the two cases may be related. _If_ it turns out he is right and somebody did dose both horses with some sort of drug, Miss Tregennis, then your testimony might be our only hope of catching this criminal and seeing justice done."

It wasn't a bad argument, Sherlock grudgingly acknowledged, his nose wrinkling. It was clear that Donovan had some skill at soothing ruffled feathers. In addition to apologizing unnecessarily, Donovan was appealing to Brenda's sentiment, sense of duty and desire to see her horse's death avenged. The emphasis on the word 'if' grated, however. Of course he was right. Based on the evidence thus far, Devil's Blaze and Cream Soda both having been drugged by some sort of hitherto unknown compound that made them incredibly aggressive was the only explanation that made sense. The trick was discovering 'how,' 'with what,' and more importantly, 'who'. 

Mr. Tregennis frowned, and looked down at his daughter, who was still sobbing against his shoulder and leaned forward to whisper something to her. Sherlock couldn't read his lips—the angle was wrong, but judging by the way his daughter shook her head, he was likely asking her if she wanted to leave and she was arguing against it. His speculation was confirmed when Brenda looked up and met Donovan's patient expression with a watery sniff and a half-hearted shrug.

"Thank you Miss Tregennis," Donovan said warmly. "Or would you rather I call you Brenda?"

"Um, Brenda, I guess," the teenager mumbled after a long moment. She sniffed loudly and began to scrub the handkerchief over her face, smearing the still-glistening tear tracks into a snotty mess across her cheeks.

"Thank you, Brenda. And please, call me Sally, if you like," Donovan offered. She waited a beat, letting Brenda blow her nose, before continuing. "Do you need a moment to get a drink, perhaps wash your face?"

Brenda shook her head. 

"Okay. That's fine. If you do need a break, please let me know, alright? Talking about trauma can be hard." Donovan waited until Brenda nodded before continuing. "As I mentioned previously, your testimony may prove critical to our investigation. So—with your permission, that is—I would like to go ahead and turn on the recorder. I also want to stress again that despite what Mr. Holmes may have implied, you are _not_ in trouble and that your testimony is not going to be used against you. Okay?" 

Brenda bit her lip again, and looked up at her father.

Mr. Tregennis gave Donovan a sharp look. "Can I get your word on that, Ma'am?" 

Donovan looked at Officer Gregory. "Officer Gregory?"

The blond officer puffed himself up, somewhat officiously. "It is not a crime to defend one's self against an animal attack. Even if Miss Tregennis did strike her horse first, the law states that there is a large difference between ordinary training or discipline and deliberate, malicious animal abuse. We have no reason at this time to file criminal charges against Miss Tregennis."

Mr. Tregennis did not look happy. He looked back at his daughter. "What do you think, kiddo?"

Brenda drew a shaky breath as she stared down at her lap. "I've spent months feeling guilty and thinking it was my fault that Cream Soda died," she said slowly. "If somebody out there _is_ hurting horses or drugging them to make them panic, I wanna make sure they're caught and sent to jail. I don't want somebody else to get hurt." 

"Good girl. Thank you Brenda," Donovan replied, her tone approving. She locked eyes with Officer Gregory, Mr. Tregennis and Sherlock in turn. After receiving confirmation nods from everybody, Donovan pulled the tape recorder a little closer and activated it. "This is Detective Sally Donovan with the White-Collar Unit of the Amarillo Police Department..." Donovan began, reciting the tedious details about the date and time for the record. "Joining me in person is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Equestrian Expert. Also present by video conference are Officer Gregory of the Flagstaff Arizona Police Department, Brenda Tregennis, and Mortimer Tregennis, her father. We are meeting to discuss Brenda Tregennis's experience at the Flagstaff Equifest Saddle Series Rodeo when she was attacked and injured by her horse, Cream Soda. Brenda," Donovan continued, directing her attention back to the teenager and ignoring the other individuals in the room, "you're a barrel racer, yes?"

"Yes Ma'am," Brenda mumbled.

"How long have you been barrel racing?" 

"Six years. Eight if you include practice."

"Did you always ride the same horse?"

Brenda shook her head. 

"Could you respond verbally, please for the recorder?" Donovan asked.

"Yes Ma'am. I mean no Ma'am," Brenda replied, looking abashed. "My first horse was a pony named Butterscotch. I didn't start riding Cream Soda until later. Mom said I had to be big enough and good enough before she'd let me ride her baby," Brenda added, confirming Sherlock's prior observation.

"So how long were you and Cream Soda partners?" Donovan asked, her voice gentle. 

"Almost four years."

"You must have spent a lot of time together, I suppose. What with training and all that."

"Yeah," Brenda whispered. "We train—I mean trained—together a lot. Almost every day. And then, after Mom died, Cream Soda and I got even closer. She missed Mom too—I could tell. Mom'd had her since high school. I spent a lot of time in her stall. Just spending time petting her made me not miss Mom so bad. I would have spent the night in the barn, if Daddy'd let me."

"That's pretty special," Donovan agreed. "Our animal friends are good at sensing when we're upset. I have a cat that can tell when I've had a bad day, because she goes out of her way to be extra cuddly. Of course, she also scolds me if I'm late feeding her. I swear that I can hear her yelling 'idiot human, where's my dinner?' from outside if I get home late."

Sherlock didn't consider it a particularly humorous story, but apparently Brenda did because she gave the detective a watery smile. 

"I know what you mean," Brenda replied, reaching up and scrubbing at her nose again. "Sometimes during practice if I knocked a barrel over, Cream Soda would stop and look at the barrel like she couldn't believe what happened. And then she'd turn her head and look at me like it was my fault, even though she was the one who actually hit it."

Donovan chuckled, prompting a weak giggle from Brenda in return. "So what made you start barrel racing?" Donovan asked, leaning forward slightly, her body language inviting. "It seems like a dangerous—well, I guess 'hobby' isn't the right word. Passion, maybe?" Donovan paused and raised an eyebrow, seeking confirmation. "Passion, then," Donovan resumed at Brenda's nod. Was it your mother or…?"

"Mom got me started, but I stuck with it because it's fun," Brenda explained, warming up to the topic and beginning to lecture Donovan on the history of the event and her mother's prowess. Brenda's face grew more animated the longer she spoke, visibly relaxing in response to Donovan's gentle encouragement and open-ended questions.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the chair arms impatiently as he listened with half an ear, hoping to pick out a relevant kernel of information. Donovan was using the same question-and-answer response pattern that Sherlock often employed to built a rapport with a suspect. He couldn't fault her methodology, but the plodding pace was making him metaphorically chafe at the bit. He let it continue for several minutes longer, until the boredom became too much. 

"While the many facets of barrel racing are no doubt fascinating for those involved, we do have a schedule to keep," Sherlock announced abruptly, ignoring the warning glare Donovan slanted at him. "Moving on," Sherlock continued, fixing his gaze on Brenda, "what can you tell me about Cream Soda's diet? Did she stay on the same feeding regimen year round, or did you compensate the protein/roughage ratio during the off season?" It was unlikely that overfeeding was the issue, but he'd encountered more than once among inexperienced owners; it only made sense to eliminate all possible reasons for sudden behavioral changes. He'd once overheard a livery-yard employee describe giving high-protein soybean meal to a pet horse as 'sticking high-octane dynamite up a thoroughbred's arse and lighting it'. While high-octane dynamite didn't technically exist, he nevertheless understood the sentiment the handler was expressing. Overfeeding and under-exercising could make even the most mild horse go stir-crazy with boredom. 

"No," Brenda said flatly. "I was pretty careful about her feed. On season, she got a good balance of alfalfa and sweet feed. Off season, I fed her mostly grass, with a cup or two of oats mixed in." 

"How would you describe Cream Soda's overall temperament? Laid back? High-strung? Well-mannered? Noisy? Quiet? Hot blooded, or cold?" 

"She was always pretty hyper. She loved to run and gave every race her all. Mom always said that Cream Soda had a lot of heart, which was why she was such a great racer. Heart is what separates the winners from the quitters." 

"Mmm….hyperbole," Sherlock replied dismissively. "Not germane. Skipping ahead to the afternoon Cream Soda tried to kill you," Sherlock continued, surreptitiously moving his chair slightly further away before Donovan could kick him again, "how would you describe her mood? What was her behavior like prior to the race, during the competition and then afterwards when you led her to her stall?"

Brenda bit her lip, clearly pondering Sherlock's question. "She seemed fine during the day," Brenda replied slowly. "She didn't start acting up until later, after the competition. Like she was upset we'd lost again." 

"Unlikely," Sherlock said dryly, raising and lowering both eyebrows, "considering winning is an abstract human construct outside of survival context. Was Cream Soda particularly barn-sour, apprehensive about being placed in a unfamiliar stall, or difficult to lead?"

Brenda shook her head again. "No, not at all. Not normally, I mean." 

"Interesting. In your own words, I want you to describe what happened in Barn A, stall seventeen at the Flagstaff Equifest Saddle Series Rodeo on the morning of Saturday, March 13th of this year." 

"When you're ready," Donovan interjected, her voice reassuring, even as she shot Sherlock a disgusted look.

"But preferably quite quickly," Sherlock added impatiently. The gust of wind that fluttered the hem of his trousers made Sherlock absurdly glad that he'd taken the precaution of moving out of range. His right ankle was already throbbing and he wasn't looking forward to seeing the constellation of bruises later. He didn't miss the way Brenda's lips thinned, or the way her expression went somewhere between 'mulish' and 'murderous'. _Good_. If she was angry at him, she'd be less likely to start blubbing again, if only to salvage her pride. 

Brenda drew a deep breath, likely to steady herself. "It was after our division was done," she began in a low, halting voice. "Like I said, I was really upset, because we'd trained hard beforehand and we hadn't even placed third. Daddy said to put Cream Soda up and he'd buy me a fried ice cream as a consolation prize."

"And?" Sherlock prodded impatiently.

Brenda pressed her lips together and half-shrugged. "It was warm out, so I walked her out until she was cool, and then I started leading her to the horse barn so I could put her up…" She paused briefly to lick her lips before continuing. "I guess she didn't want to go though, because—" 

"You guess?" Sherlock interrupted, "why?"

"Be...because the closer we got to the barn, the more Cream Soda started to struggle," Brenda confessed. "She kept balking and tossing her head. She wasn't listening to me. I don't know why. She's never acted that way before!" 

"Never?" Sherlock repeated skeptically. 

"No sir," Brenda replied, shaking her head emphatically. "I mean, any horse can get cranky, but she seemed almost afraid of going to the barn."

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured, steepling his fingers together.

"I...I thought maybe it was my fault," Brenda added in a hesitant tone. "I thought that she could sense how upset I was at losing…I know I wasn't being as patient as I should have been...and I know horses respond to their rider's mood. I kept having to jerk her head down and make her move sideways while I was leading her..." Brenda trailed off and looked down at her hands again. Her father gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze but remained silent. 

Sherlock twitched an eyebrow fractionally and stole a quick glance at Donovan. The detective's expression was a combination of patient and encouraging. With effort, Sherlock restrained the impulse to metaphorically grab Brenda by the shoulders and shake her to speed her tale along. "What happened when you finally reached the barn?"

With a watery sniff, Brenda resumed her story. "I tried to put her away, only that didn't go so well. She kept acting up. I wouldn't have even gotten her into her stall if a nice man hadn't helped me lead her in and tie her."

"Did he feed her any sort of treat?"

"No, not that I saw at least."

"What about her hay net? Empty or full?"

"Empty until I filled it myself."

"Where did the hay come from?"

"We brought it from home."

"Hmmmm…" Sherlock said meditatively. Brenda had already clarified that she didn't overfeed her horse, but poisoning was still a possibility. It took several weeks for locoweed poisoning symptoms to manifest, but consumption of hemlock could produce symptoms in as little as an hour, beginning with nervousness and tremors. "Any sign of muscle tremors or incoordination? Or perhaps something odd in the hay?"

"No. It was just straight alfalfa."

"I see." Poisoning via feed seemed less probable, unless it was something extremely fast-acting and hard to detect. He hoped it was. An eight would almost make up for the misery of having to wear denim jeans in such a miserable climate. Sherlock tilted his head as he resumed his interrogation. "What about afterwards? Did Cream Soda continue struggling once she was tied?"

Brenda shook her head. "No. I mean she was still really tense even after she got to her stall—her ears kept flicking, but after the cowboy left, she seemed to calm down a little bit, so I got her brushes so I could groom her...Only...she kept flicking her tail and pinning her ears at me, like she didn't like it. I was being careful, even though I was upset," Brenda added indignantly to Sherlock's raised eyebrow and unvoiced question. "I'm not stupid! I _know_ brushing too hard can make a horse reflexively kick or bite a person in pain—especially if they've been exercising. She didn't look like she was hurting, though, just tense and frightened." 

"Considering you voluntarily re-entered a stall containing a stressed and nervous equine, that claim is somewhat debatable," Sherlock retorted snidely. "Moving on, were there any strange dogs or loud machinery operating nearby that could have contributed to Cream Soda's fear?" Sometimes the simplest explanations could be overlooked. Most horses had very sensitive hearing and while a human might easily dismiss the sound of an air compressor, barking dog, squeaking generator belt or emergency siren as something benign, an equine might not.

Brenda glared at him, but shook her head, dismissing Sherlock's theory. "No. There were a few people walking around, and yeah, some of the other horses seemed restless, but nothing unusual for an event. It was actually pretty quiet in the barn."

"Interesting," Sherlock said slowly, drumming his fingers on the table in front of him in thought. Brenda's testimony had successfully eliminated the most obvious causes for a horse panicking. Now to focus on what remained. "Describe exactly what happened when Cream Soda attacked you," Sherlock demanded, snapping back from his mental wanderings, the speed of his question making Brenda blink and flinch backwards in surprise.

"I'd...turned to swap out the curry comb for the body brush and that's when she kicked at me. I immediately shouted 'NO!' and smacked her with the handle of the brush."

"Why?" Donovan asked, her tone carefully neutral.

"Safety—" Brenda began.

"Basic safety—" Sherlock replied almost simultaneously.

Sherlock flicked an eyebrow, wordlessly communicating to the teenager that she should continue explaining.

Brenda folded her arms across her chest in a subconscious defensive gesture. "I...I know it looks bad and ordinarily I'd _never_ hit a horse, but Mom taught me that biting and kicking are the two big no-no behaviors. She said that I should _immediately_ put the fear of God into _any_ horse that even tried to bite or kick me—even a cute foal."

"Hmmm, I see. Then what happened?" Donovan asked.

Brenda looked down at her hands and began twisting her fingers together. "Normally a quick whack and a yell is enough to make a horse back off and behave. They're smart enough to tell the difference between discipline and abuse and straighten up accordingly...only Cream Soda didn't. The moment I smacked her and yelled, she started screaming and trying to pull back, which is really, really dangerous, especially when a horse is tied because they can flip over and break their necks if the slipknot pulls loose. I guess I panicked, because I—I smacked her and yelled at her to quit it, but she didn't, she just started struggling even more. I tried to get past her so I could get out of the stall, but before I could, the tie ring broke and she started rearing and pawing the air like wild horses do when they're threatened by wolves or something. She..she didn't look like Cream Soda anymore, she looked like Blucifer," Brenda concluded in a whisper.

"Blucifer?" Sherlock repeated, one eyebrow winging upward.

"It's a statue of a giant mustang that stands outside of the Denver Airport," Mr. Tregennis explained. "So named for its blue color and glowing red eyes. We saw it on a vacation some years ago."

Brenda nodded and shivered. "Her...her eyes were all red and her teeth were bared. And that's when she attacked me. I remember screaming for help because I couldn't get to the door, but I...really don't remember anything else until I woke up in the hospital and Daddy told me Cream Soda had been put down."

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and pursed his lips, mentally replaying Brenda's words against the photographs of the scene he'd studied, looking for some hint that he'd overlooked. Brenda's use of the word 'scared' was important, especially in light of Devil's Blaze's own behavior, and it made sense for a terrified horse to attack a perceived threat. "Describe the scent of the smoke," Sherlock said abruptly.

Brenda scrunched up her nose. "It smelled weird. Like burning trash, maybe? It was kind of pungent, maybe a little woodsy? It was more like weed than tobacco, but the two were kind of mixed together?"

"And how would you know what marijuana smells like, young lady?" Mr. Tregennis broke in.

Brenda jumped, cringed and shot a nervous look at Donovan. "Some of the seniors have gotten busted for smoking it in the bathrooms at school. That's all."

Donovan's expression didn't change, Officer Gregory looked resigned, but Mr. Tregennis's foreboding expression hinted at an uncomfortable discussion in the future. 

Sherlock spared a brief moment of sympathy for Brenda. He'd undergone any number of interrogations about his own use of recreational substances thanks to his elder brother's heavy-handed stance on morality. Plying one's political rivals with expensive alcohol and encouraging them to drink to excess during negotiations was perfectly acceptable, as was the use of blackmail, intimidation and beautiful women armed with tranquilizers. But Sherlock's personal decision to use Class A drugs to stimulate his mind was verboten. 

"What happened to the horse's body after the necropsy?" Sherlock asked, focusing in the possible clue. The necropsy report had mentioned faint traces of smoke inhalation and irritated lung and nasal tissues. It might prove to be useless, but it wouldn't hurt to exhume the body and collect samples for further analysis. 

"I had Cream Soda cremated, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Tregennis replied, dashing Sherlock's plans. "And after Brenda came home, we scattered her ashes over her pasture."

So much for that strategy.

"Were there any other horses in the barn?" Sherlock queried, his head tilting to one side. Perhaps it would be possible to collect samples from a living animal instead. 

Brenda shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe? I'm not sure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust at Brenda's lack of recall. "What about people?" he demanded. "Other competitors? Event employees?" 

"There were a couple of guys smoking out front. One was the one who helped me put Cream Soda up when she really started balking and trying to get free."

"Can you describe them for me? Specifically the one that helped you?"

"Um….tall? Tanned? Bowlegged?"

"Insufficient, now _think_!" Sherlock snapped.

"I don't remember!" Brenda said helplessly. "They just looked like ordinary cowboys!"

Sherlock's lip curled in contempt. Clearly he wasn't likely to get much more useful testimony from Brenda.

"Shhh," Donovan soothed, giving Sherlock a side eye before turning back to face the screen. "It's all right. You aren't in trouble, Brenda," she added, taking control of the conversation again. "We're just looking for other possible witnesses that might be able to help solve this case. Can you think of _anybody_ else who might have seen something useful? Maybe a friend of yours?"

Brenda chewed on her bottom lip, clearly struggling to recall. "I think there might have been a reporter interviewing people there? She moved around a lot...I didn't talk to her, so I don't know what station she was with, but maybe she saw something strange?"

"A reporter?" Donovan repeated, "what makes you suspect that?"

"Because she was wearing a short skirt and heels and walking around with a camera and a microphone. Everybody else—even the judges—tends to wear jeans and boots at an event." 

Donovan tipped her head to one side, acknowledging Brenda's point. "That makes sense. Can you tell me what the reporter looked like?" Donovan asked, pulling a pad of paper closer and uncapping her pen. "A description might make it easier to track her down." 

"Um, average height. Pale. She had reddish hair and was wearing it in two braided pigtails, which looked pretty stupid, since she was wearing a suit."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Donovan, suspicions already forming. Judging by the way the detective's expression grew increasingly sour, the longer Brenda talked, it was clear she had her own hunch on who the alleged reporter might be. 

"Would you know her if you saw her again?" Donovan asked, glancing down at what she'd written and then looking up again to meet Brenda's eyes.

"Maybe? I think so?" Brenda replied doubtfully.

"Officer Gregory, I'm going to email you some photos," Donovan said abruptly. "Could you please open them and show it to Miss Tregennis? Brenda, could you please state whether or not you recognize any of the individuals pictured? Detective Donovan emailed Officer Gregory image files R1, R2, R3, H1, H2, H3, T1, T2 and T3 associated with APD Police File No. 31415926," Donovan relayed for the benefit of the recorder that was still recording.

"Got it," Officer Gregory announced after a few moments. He clicked the files open and adjusted the laptop slightly so that Brenda could see.

"Her," Brenda said hesitantly after a studying the pictures. She reached out and tapped her finger on the screen of the laptop held in front of her. "The lady second from the end. She was wearing dark sunglasses, so it's kinda hard to tell, but I think it might have been her."

"Can you please relay the number of that image file, Officer Gregory?" Donovan asked.

"It's image file R2, Ma'am."

"Thank you, Officer Gregory," Donovan replied graciously. "Brenda, do any of the individuals in the other images look familiar?"

Brenda shook her head. "No, Ma'am. Who is she?"

"I don't want to prejudice the rest your interview by revealing names," Donovan said firmly, "but the fact that you recognized her may prove to be significant."

"Okay," Brenda said, apparently content to accept Donovan's explanation with minimal fuss.

"I have see that blond woman before," Mr. Tregennis piped up suddenly. "R3, I believe is the number? But I don't know if that means anything."

Sherlock leaned forward over Donovan's shoulder to see what woman Mr. Tregennis was describing. Candii Ross's face stared back at him, the R3 clearly visible at the bottom of the picture. Image R2 was Kitty Riley, as he had suspected. Molly Hooper and several other Triple C employees were also pictured, as well as a handful of other women he didn't recognize. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Donovan and received an unapologetic chin raise in return. 

Donovan nodded slowly, making a note on her pad. "Thank you, Mr. Tregennis. I'll take that under advisement." Donovan paused to take a sip of her coffee. "Are you doing all right so far, Brenda. Do you need to stop for a drink or anything?"

"No Ma'am. Thank you."

"If you're certain, then we'll keep going." Donovan flipped to a clean sheet of paper on her pad. "I'd like to backtrack a bit." Her eyes flicked sideways at Sherlock in an unmistakable warning to remain silent. "Earlier, you mentioned that somebody posted a video of the attack online? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what it was called? Or which platform it was hosted on? We may need it to help build our case," Donovan added, her tone apologetic.

Brenda's expression was miserable. "Not really. It was posted directly on Tumblr. I know it had 'barrel racer' in the title, though."

"That's fine," Donovan replied, her brow furrowing as she scribbled a quick note down. "I'll look into that later," she added, ignoring Sherlock as he pulled out his mobile and began typing. "How did you find out about the video? Did somebody specifically send you the link?"

"No. It was uploaded to EquestriaGurlz."

"EquestriaGurlz," Sherlock repeated the name with distaste as he continued typing in search keywords, his thumbs flying over the keypad. He could hear the deliberate misspelling and the trite inclusion of the letters 'Z' and 'U' in Brenda's pronunciation. Mr. Talbot would probably roll over in his grave at the utter bastardization of the English language, if it were possible for corpses to reanimate. "Based on the name and no-doubt bromidic spelling, it is some sort of online community devoted to equines. Tell me," Sherlock demanded waspishly, his patience worn thin with the plodding speed of the interview, "do you and your peers discuss anything of importance or do you focus exclusively on puerile forms of entertainment, such as memes and personality quizzes revolving around the animated misadventures of pastel-coloured anthropomorphic equines with appalling names—"

"Holmes," Donovan snapped warningly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but subsided with bad-tempered grace. Donovan gave him a final glare before turning her attention back to Brenda. "What is EquestriaGurlz about? Is it a 4-H type club?" 

Brenda gave her father an apprehensive look and hunched her shoulders inward. "It's a group blog on Tumblr for just...anything horses. Some girls are barrel racers like me. Some do dressage. We swap recipes...training tips...videos, pictures and other stuff."

"Mmmmm, boring." Sherlock announced dismissively as the screen finally resolved to show the search results. Sherlock frowned. There were thousands of clips available using the keywords 'barrel racer' and 'abuse,' each with a more sensationalized title and atrocious punctuation than the last. He hissed in irritation. Clearly it was going to take some time to locate the specific video in question.

"Ignore him," Donovan ordered, giving Brenda an encouraging smile. "Do you recall who uploaded the clip to EquestriaGurlz? And why?"

Brenda nodded. "Yeah. A bunch of us were talking about who we thought would win the Shamrock Showdown Super Show—Alexandra McClintock and her horse Empress or Stephanie Harrington and Sphinx—when a user I'd never seen before named EquineadvoKat butted in and ruined everything with their lies—"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the combination of word-play and the feline-based diminutive of Katherine. He closed his browser to better listen. He'd already read several of the inflammatory, expose-style articles Kitty Riley had posted on her website. It would be perfectly in keeping with what he'd observed of the woman's digital persona for her to create a nom de guerre to disseminate more 'evidence' that rodeos were abusive to equines. 

"My apologies for the interruption, but how do you spell that?" Donovan interjected, holding her pen up.

"E-Q-U-I-N-E-A-D-V-O-K-A-T," Brenda spelled out slowly.

"Thank you," Donovan said, quickly writing the name down and circling it. "Now, what did EquineadvoKat do?"

"They, they started by saying barrel racing is an abusive sport and we should be ashamed of traumatizing innocent animals for our own selfish, human-centric entertainment. A bunch of us pointed out that our horses _love_ racing and that we take really good care of them. That's when EquineadvoKat uploaded the video to the group as 'proof'. I saw it and posted a response explaining that even though I smacked Cream Soda, I wasn't abusing her, I had been using the standard three-second rule to discipline her for trying to kick me...only EquineadvoKat took my words and twisted them...and when I tried to argue, other trolls started joining in..." Brenda paused to sniff and wipe her face. "Somebody even uploaded a picture of Cream Soda's body and said it was my fault she was dead, saying even more horrible things...and I realized they must be right...It was my fault—" 

"No," Sherlock said abruptly. "Whatever happened, you are a child, Brenda. And as I already previously stated, nothing you've described should have resulted in Cream Soda's actions. The fact that somebody decided to spread their propaganda by uploading damning videos, bullying a traumatized girl and spreading libel does not make you complicit in Cream Soda's death." He refrained from mentioning that Brenda had almost certainly contributed to the situation by not leaving her already-spooky horse alone. It wouldn't change anything since the horse was dead and the probability of the event being repeated with the same parties was so low, it was laughable. 

"Holmes is right," Donovan said, giving Sherlock an approving—albeit somewhat surprised—glance. "Harassing people online is illegal, Brenda, and 'Freedom of Speech' only covers so much. Did you happen to save any of the messages you received?" 

Brenda shook her head. "No. I didn't. It got so bad, I finally deleted my account."

A quick blink was Donovan's only sign of frustration. "That's fine," she said reassuringly, even though Sherlock could easily spot the lie. 

In the background, Brenda's father looked murderous. Whether it was because his daughter had created online social networking profiles without his knowledge or permission, or whether it was because somebody had bullied his daughter, Sherlock could not discern. Either could be a possibility for a widowed father, perhaps feeling more protective than usual in light of his daughter's near-death.

Donovan looked down at the notes she'd been taking, her lips moving as she silently read. "So," Donovan began, looking up to meet Brenda's eyes, "to summarize: there was nothing immediately unusual in Cream Soda's behavior prior to the attack, an unknown individual helped you put Cream Soda back in her stall, and you don't recall her eating anything unusual. You've tentatively identified the alleged reporter that was wandering around the fairgrounds, there may be video of the attack available online, and you received quite a bit of hate mail after the video was uploaded. Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

"No, Ma'am."

"What about the man who saved your life?" Sherlock interjected. "Mr. Fitzroy Simpson? Is he a close friend of yours? Or perhaps your father's?"

"No," Mr. Tregennis answered for both of them. "I'd never met him before. I know he normally spends his days saving the lives of bull riders from aggressive bulls; I'm just glad he was on hand to save my daughter too." 

Sherlock pursed his lips. "What about the man with the mobile and the smoke? Was it the same individual who helped you put Cream Soda in her stall?"

"I don't know. I didn't actually see him go by, I just heard him and noticed the smell 'cause it was weird."

"I see." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the desk. Hopefully the video would shed some more insight once he finally tracked it down. He was surprised that Mycroft hadn't asked Anthea to procure it for him, but if nothing else, it would be an opportunity to tweak Anthea for her research fail.

"Do you have any other questions for Miss Tregennis, Mr. Holmes?" Donovan asked formally.

"No."

"Miss Tregennis, do you have any final details you'd like to add to the record?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Officer Gregory? Mr. Tregennis?"

"Negative."

"No."

"Then with everybody's permission, I'll conclude this interview." Donovan recited a few more tedious details and switched off the recorder. She picked up her coffee cup and took a quick sip before setting it down and giving Brenda a warm smile. "I appreciate you being willing to meet with me, all of you," Donovan added, making eye contact with Officer Gregory and Mr. Tregennis. "I know that wasn't pleasant, Brenda, but you were very brave."

"Thanks," Brenda whispered, scrubbing the back of one hand over her eyes. "Do you think it will help?"

"I certainly hope so," Donovan said carefully. "You've given us a few more avenues of investigation to pursue. In the event that we do make an arrest that eventually goes to the prosecutor, you may be called on to testify. To that end, I'd strongly discourage you from discussing this any further online. I'm not sure what the Arizona statutes on cyberbullying are—Officer Gregory would be better able to advise you on that—suffice to say, it's illegal."

"Yes," Officer Gregory agreed. "It is."

"I got bullied a lot when I was growing up," Donovan added, leaning forward towards Brenda. "It's one of the reasons I decided to become a cop. I know it's hard, but if somebody starts sending you harassing messages about your horse again, don't engage. Instead save them, or at least take a screenshot and either call or email the police and me. I'll have Officer Gregory give you a card with my contact information. All right?"

"Okay." 

Donovan spent a few more minutes exchanging pleasantries with the other adults and making promises to update them with any new information before concluding the call. The moment the screen went black, Donovan grabbed her cup and took a long, noisy draught, one worthy of an Yank tourist visiting an Irish pub for the first time, or an Aussie in general.

"I don't like it," Donovan said abruptly, slamming her cup down, all traces of the gently-encouraging confidant wiped from her features and replaced with her normal hard-edged expression. "It seems too coincidental. Your client gets nasty letters from her employers, blames Kitty Riley. Kitty Riley posts leaked photos of Devil's Blaze on her website...Brenda Tregennis sees somebody who she tentatively identified as Kitty Riley lurking around the fairgrounds, then starts getting cyberbullied by somebody online calling themselves 'EquineadvoKat'. You can't tell me that's not suspicious. Your theories about Riley's involvement may be right, Holmes."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said vaguely. "Unfortunately, Brenda Tregennis's lack of ability to offer any particularly useful insights will make that harder to prove. Based on her own testimony, she was too emotionally compromised to correctly interpret her horse's body language. Even without the possibility of an unknown drug, Brenda's attempts at discipline almost certainly exacerbated the problem until Cream Soda panicked." 

"I'll take your word for that," Donovan replied with a grimace. "You're the horse freak, not me." She took another sip of her coffee. Judging by the slurp, she was down to the dregs, Sherlock noted absently. "So where do you want to go from here?"

"Your office. I want to examine the witness statements before I leave," Sherlock stated, pushing himself to his feet. Thanks to Mycroft and Anthea, he'd already seen some of the information in Donovan's files, but it was difficult—even for somebody with Sherlock's or Anthea's abilities—to access documents that hadn't been previously uploaded online. 

"Fine," Donovan sighed in apparent resignation. She quickly gathered up the items she'd brought with her before striding out the door, Sherlock close on her heels.

Back in her office, Donovan set the tape recorder down and plucked several folders from the stack she'd brought with her. "Don't even try to steal them," Donovan warned as she passed them to Sherlock's hands. "These are police property and I _will_ arrest you."

Sherlock sneered even as he accepted the files. Apparently Major Barrymore was _still_ holding a grudge; Donovan wouldn't have bothered saying anything otherwise. He thumbed the buttons of his suit jacket open before seating himself and opening the top folder and the documents contained therein.

Several minutes later, a soft sound tapping sound caused him to look up from his reading. Donovan was standing with her back to him, drumming the fingers of her left hand against her thigh, clearly waiting for her coffee to finish brewing with almost tangible impatience. It was easy enough to deduce by the set of her shoulders and the angle of her head that she was glaring intently at the coffee machine, as if she could somehow change the laws of physics and make water boil faster by willpower alone. He'd seen Anthea assume the same pose on more than one occasion when he'd hacked his brother's personal security cameras out of boredom. Sherlock allowed his lips twitch in a miniscule smirk of amusement before exchanging the Flagstaff file for the Devil's Blaze file.

Molly's account didn't offer any new insights, neither did the Tredannick brothers'. Their first hint that anything might be wrong was when Straker had failed to show up for his shift. Wrinkling his nose in exasperation, Sherlock turned his attention to the last document: the witness account from Ned Hunter.

It was—as Donovan had forewarned—irritatingly incoherent.

Hunter contradicted himself repeatedly, arguing that he'd only had two or three beers and never drank whiskey, despite the damning DNA evidence on the empty bottle beside him that proved otherwise. According to Hunter, the last thing he remembered was standing outside, smoking, and hearing raised male voices through the tinhorn walls of the building he was leaning against. He had no idea how he'd ended up in a horse stall in the Bill Cody building with a large knot on the back of his skull.

"What are you looking for?" Donovan asked abruptly, resuming her seat, coffee cup in hand.

"Smoke."

"As in 'where there's smoke, there's fire?'" Donovan asked dubiously, raising an eyebrow.

"Possibly."

"I don't follow."

"Hardy surprising," Sherlock quipped.

The ice in Donovan's gaze would have put Medusa to shame. 

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Look," he began, holding up Ned Hunter's witness statement. "Smoking in barns is a proscribed activity on account of the extreme fire hazard it represents. Even Ned Hunter mentioned that he was smoking outside when he heard raised voices. Yet Brenda mentioned somebody walking past Cream Soda's stall with a lit cigarette, even though other people were standing in the front of the building and smoking. She also mentioned that her horse panicked afterward. It intrigues me, because while most chemical substances are either ingested or injected, aerosol dispersal is certainly possible."

"It could be coincidence," Donovan pointed out in the tone of one long accustomed to playing the Devil's advocate. 

"Perhaps," Sherlock replied. "But unlikely. Unfortunately," he continued with an aggravated snarl, "thanks to Mr. Tregennis foolishly cremating his daughter's horse, there is no way for me to run tests to confirm or deny that argument."

"Can it, Holmes," Donovan barked. "He had no way of knowing you'd be coming, and I doubt you'd have much luck exhuming a dead horse anyway. Focus on what we _can_ do."

Sherlock bit his tongue. Donovan wasn't giving him nearly enough credit for the lengths he was willing to go in service to the Work. Still, she had a point. "Fine," he huffed. "I'll start searching for the abuse video. If I can get a visual of the man Brenda mentioned, we might be able to bring him in for questioning." 

" _I_ might be able to bring him in for questioning," Donovan corrected him sharply. " _You're_ not a cop; you can't run around detaining people just because you feel like it. And don't bother giving me that outraged otter face—" Donovan continued, unfazed by Sherlock's expression. "I told you, I've spoken with Detective Ballarat over in Boscombe Valley."

Sherlock sniffed. The constant litany about procedure and regulations from the police was the eternal albatross to his ship.

"I haven't forgotten the text you sent about Straker being involved in illegal gambling," Donovan added, when Sherlock remained silent. She tapped the nib of her pen against her notes. "Even if it was—somehow—a hit, I don't see how it could be connected to a barrel racer in Arizona. Straker had been dead for what, a couple of weeks before Brenda's horse went psycho?"

"Yes."

Donovan shrugged. "Still, that's a criminal/fraud investigation, which is my area of expertise. Even though there's no direct evidence that Straker was murdered, in light of the money involved, his death has still been reclassified as suspicious."

"Any word on Straker's finances?"

"Not yet, but that doesn't mean there isn't something to find," Donovan replied with a grimace. "I'll put out a few more feelers, see if anybody in other divisions knows anything about him. Something might turn up. There's also the chance that we might find evidence of an offshore account whenever Straker's estate goes through probate."

"I overheard that Candii Ross has agreed to keep Straker's cabin locked and untouched while the investigation is ongoing," Sherlock added.

"How did you learn about that?"

"The housekeeper-nee-cook was discussing it with her daughter. It's amazing how often idiots assume that nobody can understand them if they're conversing in a foreign language," Sherlock explained his tone dry. 

"Huh. I take it that's a trick you've used before?"

"Yes."

Something flashed in Donovan's eyes, approval of his somewhat devious skills, perhaps? Regardless, it wasn't relevant. He didn't need Donovan's approval, only her cooperation.

"I still need access to a forensics lab," Sherlock reminded Donovan. "I still have tests I want to run on the samples I collected from the fairground stall and I've reached the limits of what I'm able to test for using the equipment at the Triple C."

"What kinds of tests?" Donovan asked skeptically.

"A ten-panel hair test and extended opiate detection screen for starters. Hopefully it will turn up something useful since the blood tests that Doctor Watson ran didn't." 

Donovan blew out a frustrated breath and stared at the ceiling. "Let me make some calls, see if I can call in a few favors. I'll call you once I know." 

"Do that," Sherlock replied, standing up and re-buttoning his suit jacket. "In the meantime, I'll continue my work with Devil's Blaze." 

~*~

The unanswered list of questions kept circling in Sherlock's mind, the same way a band of three-year-olds circled a training track or the Triple C's border horses moved around the European-style horse exerciser. It was irritating in the extreme: dull, repetitive motion with no real resolution or excitement.

The type of situation that made his brain rot.

He'd spent hours online, tracking down blog entries by EquineadvoKat and in the process had uncovered several other probable aliases and blogs for Kitty Riley's virtual crusade: EquineEqualkitty, Pressgang, and Kativist. The logical fallacies they contained had almost been enough to make him vomit—despite being a man who routinely kept samples of blood, manure, urine and viscera in his refrigerator, (Mrs. Hudson would no doubt have some sort of tart commentary that feeling nauseous served him right for not having any sympathy for her delicate sensibilities, despite her repeated requests that he stop storing eyeballs and intestines in her good tupperware).

Kitty Riley's regular website, PRESS, had been bad enough, laden as it was with photographs and 'exclusive interviews' from witnesses allegedly documenting the cruel treatment bucking broncos endured: electric prods against their genitals or anuses to make them buck, burrs and sharp pieces of wire underneath flank straps to cause pain, and worse. It was an effective emotional appeal to readers, despite having very little basis in reality (at least among legitimate, sanctioned events). 

By contrast, the claims on Kativist and EquineEqualkitty's blogs were so sensationalized as to make Coleridge's ramblings about gardens and caves appear as accurate as a travel documentary on the BBC. One particularly idiotic article titled with the clickbait headline 'Black Beauty Burgers Served to Students!' claimed that the American president had wild horses rounded up to be sold and slaughtered for commercial consumption. The author claimed that "innocent horses could be saved if people quit eating them" and urged readers to contact their political representatives about ending the Bureau of Land Management roundups "so the poor horses run free and wild as nature intended". 

Sherlock had barely managed to avoid aspirating his tea across his laptop screen. Setting aside the fact that consuming horsemeat was a somewhat taboo practice in the United States since horses were considered pets, rather than a food source, it had taken all of one Google search to discover that the headline was plagiarized verbatim from a child's storybook written by somebody named Jill Pinkwater. 

The only good thing that had come of his foray was that he'd found the video that EquineadvoKat—or rather Kitty Riley—had posted—depicting Cream Soda's alleged abuse at the hands of her owner. 

Unfortunately, it didn't do much to further his investigation. 

The clip been so heavily edited, it was practically worthless. The video had been run through a darkening filter to give it a more ominous atmosphere and set to maudlin, hard rock where the singer urged the listeners to "call my name and save me from the dark." The shots of Brenda jerking on Cream Soda's halter and Cream Soda's reactions had been slowed down to give them more gravitas, and punctuated several times by still shots of Brenda smacking Cream Soda with the handle of the curry brush.

The man Brenda had mentioned was little more than an indistinct blur moving hurriedly across the screen, clad in an eye-wateringly-coloured checked shirt, dark jeans and a green cowboy hat. The brim of the hat was pulled low, effectively obscuring the man's features. Sherlock could just barely make out the orange glow of a lit cigarette held carelessly between the fingers of the man's left hand, but the jumbled nature of the video made it impossible to tell if the mare's reaction was to the cigarette smoke or to Brenda's angry body language. 

At least the shirt was distinctive enough that if Sherlock saw it again, he would recognize it; surely there weren't two individuals tacky enough to own such a garment. Whatever idiot had decided to combine cherry red, aubergine, indigo, lemon and chartreuse-colored fabrics into the same garment deserved to be taken outside, beaten, introduced to the concept of the colour wheel and then beaten again. He hadn't seen such an appaling color combination since the last time he bought Mycroft a matching tie and pocket square set for his birthday from a novelty store that specialized in clown apparel.

Sherlock suppressed his sigh of aggravation as he opened the door to the tack room where his safety gear was stored. Clearly he needed some sort of spark, some sort of question that would make him analyze what he'd learned in a new way. In the meantime, however, he had other work to attend to.

He pulled his padded vest and helmet out of his cubby and slid them on. The stun gun went into its holster, but the training stick was left where it lay. He had no need of it and on the off chance that Blaze did decide to charge him, Sherlock was confident in his ability to turn the stallion with his voice and body alone. Besides, the current lesson was focused on convincing the stallion to allow himself to be touched. It was crucial that the stallion re-learn to tolerate handling without chemical sedation. The current refusal meant not only could he not be put in a halter, lunged, or safely tied, he couldn't be treated for deworming, have his hooves cleaned or trimmed, inoculated or even led to another stall, much less transported in a trailer to a rodeo and outfitted with the specialized halter and saddle pad necessary for competition.

Satisfied he had everything he needed, Sherlock left the tack room and began walking down the central aisle of the barn. Edith Baxter and Alice Turner were busy mucking out stalls, scooping up the soiled straw with pitchforks and dumping it into wheelbarrows with swift, economical movements. The two barrel racers looked up and smiled at his polite greeting, but didn't stop their work. Commendable, really. By Sherlock's calculations, they were only a third of the way through mucking out their assigned stalls and it made sense to get it done while the morning was still cool.

Though 'cool' in Texas was a matter of opinion. 

As Sherlock strode past, Bonnie roused herself from the stack of straw bales she'd been lying on as she watched the humans work with the air of a benevolent furry supervisor. She yawned and stretched, tongue lolling and tail wagging before falling in at Sherlock's heels with a happy bark.

"You're shameless," Sherlock halfheartedly scolded as the collie nosed his hand. She barked again before bounding forward, her magnificently plumed tail waving in the wind. Sherlock could see pieces of straw caught in her fur; they'd need to be brushed out later, lest they contaminate his bed. 

Around him, he could see the rest of the ranch staff scrubbing trailers, grooming horses, scooping up manure, hauling feed and generally dealing with the myriad of chores that went with running a ranch. Candii Ross was standing on the porch with Nat Tsedaa'. The two of them were engaged in deep conversation, likely over some tedious bit of paperwork related to the ranch, Sherlock deduced as he continued past the house towards Devil's Blaze's current pen. 

He made a point of whistling shrilly as he approached. Horses had excellent vision, so it was likely that the stallion had already spotted him, but the aural greeting helped signal his lack of predatory intent and his desire to be social. 

At the sound, Devil's Blaze paused in his circling of his pen and swung his head towards Sherlock. His ears were pricked forward and his head was up. The position indicated wariness and some apprehension, but not abject fear. It was a welcome change from the threatening posture and attacks he'd been displaying over the prior weeks. The fact that he was standing and watching Sherlock's approach instead of running around the pen was also a good sign. It meant that the stallion was still using the thinking side of his brain, rather than reacting blindly by running to escape a perceived danger.

Progress then. 

Keeping his movements steady, Sherlock climbed the rails and dropped down into the pen, landing lightly on the balls of his feet and taking several several swift strides towards the center until he was roughly twenty feet away, then halted.

Devil's Blaze snorted in response to Sherlock's approach and shied sideways, half-dancing. His ears flicked back and forth, another sign of nervousness, but he didn't rear. Nor did he pin his ears back or stalk forward with bared teeth in a sign of aggression. The horse had learned the hard way that the consequence of threatening Sherlock was to be driven around in circles in the pen until he was tired. The reward for behaving himself was being allowed to rest.

"Good boy," Sherlock praised him, deliberately pitching his voice low. He stayed where he was, one hand out to the side in a neutral position, the other hovering over the stun gun he wore in the holster on his hip watching the stallion watch him. 

The stallion was uncomfortable. The movement of Blaze's ears and the position of his head signaled what Sherlock privately considered a horse's 'dubious danger' zone. It meant that the horse in question was on high alert, but still capable of risk assessment.

Unlike what Sherlock referred to as the 'mortal peril' zone, wherein a panicked horse would literally do _anything_ to escape the perceived threat.

Devil's Blaze wasn't panicking yet, but over the past month, Sherlock had accumulated a healthy respect for how fast the stallion could switch zones.

He waited until Devil's Blaze's feet stopped moving and the horse took a deep breath (a sign of relaxation), then stepped forward calmly, keeping his movements slow and predictable. Sneaking up on the horse would only frighten him further. He paused, waited for Blaze to calm down and then stepped forward again.

And again.

And _again_.

The goal was to continue gradually pressuring Devil's Blaze to widen his comfort zone until he accepted that humans weren’t particularly dangerous. The trick was to make the stallion uncomfortable until he accepted the situation, without sending him into a full-blown panic.

It was an extremely delicate dance. 

Keeping an eye on Devi's Blaze's ears, Sherlock continued to take calm steps forward. At five feet apart, Devil's Blaze threw his head up and snorted, his wide eyes signaling that he was close to breaking and running. 

"It's okay. You're all right," Sherlock said calmly, stopping where he stood. Five feet was the closest he'd managed to get in one session. He waited, giving the stallion a chance to move away. If the stallion did flee, Sherlock would simply continue the current desensitization exercise of applying pressure by approaching the stallion and then releasing it by backing away when the stallion stood still.

To his delight, the stallion remained where he was, even chancing a step towards Sherlock, though his ears remained pricked forward and he licked his lips nervously. 

"Good boy. That's a good boy, come on," Sherlock crooned as the stallion took another hesitant step forward and then stopped. Sherlock extended his left fist, being careful to keep his fingers facing downward so they would be protected from being bitten off. 

With extreme caution, Devil's Blaze lowered his head and took a sniff. Sherlock smiled and immediately turned his head and took several steps away from the stallion.

He repeated the exercise, gradually working his closer until he was standing almost shoulder to shoulder with the horse. Murmuring reassurances all the while, Sherlock stretched his right hand out and laid it gently on the stallion's neck, not petting, just touching. He waited. The stallion's skin rippled in response to the touch and his ears flicked, but otherwise he didn't move. 

"Easy," Sherlock murmured, before bringing his palm down in a smooth sweep, hard enough not to tickle, but light enough not to cause pain. "Easy...easy...no!" Sherlock scolded loudly as Devil's Blaze suddenly pinned his ears back and whipped his head around, his intent to bite clear.

Sherlock punctuated the verbal reprimand with a short, sharp trilling noise with his tongue. It wasn't a Zaghareet, the high-pitched ululation most commonly associated with belly dancers; the tone was different and his tongue wasn't in the proper position, but it close, and, more importantly it was unique and _loud_. At the same time, with reflexes honed by a lifetime of practice, Sherlock jerked his left arm up and bent it into a rudimentary shield, with the point of his elbow facing outwards to protect his head. It was just in time for the stallion to run his sensitive muzzle into the bony protrusion instead of closing his teeth on Sherlock's flesh.

The general consensus among professional horse trainers and horse owners was that striking a horse in the face was unacceptable, though granted, there were some situations that warranted a hit to the face (namely a fight for one's life). At worst, the horse risked an eye injury. At best, the horse would interpret the blow as the human initiating a lively game of 'nip-and-chase'. It was a popular pastime among foals and geldings, but it wasn't a game humans couldn't afford to play. Even a playful nip was likely to cause painful bruising and a more serious bite could result in a trip to the ER and a course of antibiotics, or worse, depending on the location and severity.

As Brenda Tregennis's hospitalization had so aptly demonstrated.

By contrast, allowing a horse to run his or her nose into a hard object, such as a brush or elbow was an extremely effective, self-administered punishment that taught that biting was unacceptable. 

With a snort of pain, the stallion jerked his head away and wheeled around. Two long-legged bounds took the stallion safely out of Sherlock's range to the edge of the corral where, at Sherlock's barked command and hand signal, he immediately broke into a run again.

Sherlock fought down a grimace. He'd prevented the bite, but his elbow was now throbbing, sending unpleasant pins and needles up and down his arm. The temptation to rub it was strong, but he didn't dare take his right hand away from the stun gun holster, not while the stallion was running circles around the paddock with a panicked look in his eyes. He waited, silently counting the seconds in his head as he watched Blaze's ears and eyes and waited for the change that would signify the stallion calming down so he could begin again.

When Sherlock finally left the corral two hours later, both he and Devil's Blaze were hot and frustrated and exhausted.

But he'd managed to touch the stallion several more times.

He walked Devil's Blaze out, watered him, and then walked over to where Candii Ross was leaning against a nearby tree, watching him.

"I'm impressed, Billy," Candii drawled for the benefit of any employees within earshot, absently rubbing Bonnie's belly with the toe of a boot. "I wouldn't have believed if ah hadn't seen it myself. What've ya got planned for the next step?"

"Getting him into a rope halter so I can start desensitizing him in earnest," Sherlock replied, rolling his head to loosen the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders.

"Will Blaze be all right by himself for a few days?" Ross asked, watching the stallion slowly circle his pen. 

Sherlock shrugged. "It depends. As a horsewoman yourself, you know consistency is key. Until he re-learns not to attack, every day potentially undermines the progress I've made. Why?"

"I've gotta contract for a rodeo in Shiprock, Arizona next week."

"Yes, I'm aware," Sherlock replied dryly. "The 'Shiprock Stampede' event. Your forewoman outlined the travel logistics over breakfast on Monday. The twenty-one-horse 'Fire in the Hole' bareback string is the one being supplied, requiring four trailers to transport the horses, four pickup trucks to haul said trailers, one truck-and-trailer combination to haul feed from the Triple C since horses are incredibly sensitive to sudden dietary changes, and two escort trucks, one to lead and one to follow. Staff are expected to keep their CB radios on during the entire ten-hour drive. There will be at least one planned two-hour stop outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico to unload the horses, clean the trailers and feed and water the stock, per ABBA's transportation guidelines. Scheduled employees for the event include Molly Hooper, George and Owen Tredinnick, Cole Johnson, Alice Turner, Edith Baxter, several miscellaneous ranch hands and yourself. Natalie Tsedaa' and Old Wayne will supervise the ranch in your absence since it purports to be a five-day trip. Staff will be guarding the horses in shifts and sleeping in the bunk areas located in each trailer's 'gooseneck'."

"I ain't met a man so enamored with the sounda his own voice since my first husband and I called it quits," Candii drawled, seemingly unimpressed with Sherlock's summarization. 

"Indeed, my older brother does tend to drone on, doesn't he?" Sherlock retorted snidely. Not that there was any chance of Mycroft lowering himself to sentimental, romantic entanglements; his brother was an avowed bachelor, despite the wedding ring he wore. Still the look of disgust on Candii Ross's face was worth the jibe.

"Ugh. You talkin' 'bout the umbrella man?" At Sherlock's nod, Candii snorted. "Cora-René warned me 'bout him. Said he's so high an' prissy, he could drown inna rainstorm, his nose is stuck so far in the air." Candii leaned back and tucked her thumbs into her belt loops. "Ya gotta quick mouth on you, Holmes. Might want to watch that 'round here. It'd be a shame if somebody decided to ruin those purty nose and teeth of yours."

"Is that a threat?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to one side.

Candii snorted. "More like a friendly word of advice. Other folks ain't as friendly as us Texans. You mix egos and beer with your smart mouth and you're liable to start ending up a few teeth short." 

Sherlock snorted. He'd already encountered some individuals who made the most surly London cabbie look positively chummy by comparison, but he was confident in his own abilities to defend himself. He hadn't spent years studying boxing or Baritsu to allow himself to be beaten by some testosterone-poisoned, drunken cowboys with the collective intelligence of a nine-banded armadillo. It was a miracle the species wasn't extinct considering they routinely demonstrated their stubborn belief that a six pound animal curling up into an armored ball was an effective defense against an oncoming lorry that outweighed them by a factor of ten to the fifth power. "Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock demanded impatiently, anxious to get on with Blaze's training.

Candii's resultant smile was so saccharine sweet that Mrs. Hudson's Banoffee pie—a buttery pastry topped with bananas, sticky toffee and cream—would have appeared dull and tasteless in comparison.

"Because, Billy," Candii drawled, "yer 'goin with 'em!"

~*~


	13. Flirtations and Fried Foods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love incorporating other author's works into my headcanon. Shoutout to [Katzedecimal](http://katzedecimal.tumblr.com/) for their absolutely hysterical story, ['Top of the Food Chain'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/603349).

~*~

"Billy?  Billy?  Wake up.  We're here."

Sherlock's eyes shot open at the touch of a gentle hand shaking his shoulder.  He barely managed to avoid flinching back in disgust.  He _hated_ being touched unexpectedly, but grabbing Molly's wrist and putting it in a wrist-lock would be utterly out of character and more than a bit Not Good.  Best to ignore it.  "I wasn't asleep," Sherlock protested irritably, swatting her hand away.  "I was thinking," he added with a huff in response to Molly's skeptical look.  

"What about?" Molly asked as she turned off the ignition to park the enormous diesel-powered lorry she'd been driving for the duration of their trip.  Her expression made it clear that she was humoring him.

"Brenda Tregennis."

"Brenda?" Molly asked, a faint but perceptible note of suspicion colouring her tone.  "Is she somebody you know from back home?"

"No."

"Then who is she?" Molly asked, unashamedly prying. "Somebody you met here?"

"She's a barely postpubescent barrel racer who was attacked and almost killed by her horse in February," Sherlock replied bluntly, unfastening his seatbelt and preparing to exit the truck.

"Oh."  Molly glanced down, a flush of uncomfortable-looking colour darkening her cheeks.  "Is she a client of yours?"

"Not directly, no, since her horse was euthanized long before I was consulted.  I learned of her situation when I was...consulted by somebody on behalf of Ms. Ross.  I was trying to identify potential points of similarity between her horse's and Devil's Blaze's symptoms, since both cases involved horses attacking their handlers with no explanation."

"Did she die?"

Sherlock blinked.  Of all the questions he expected Molly to ask, that wasn't one of them.  "What?"

"Brenda?  You said her name was?  Did she die?"

"Oh.  No," Sherlock replied dismissively, rolling his neck to loosen the taut muscles.  Long car rides always played merry hell with his trapezii.  "She didn't, but it was a near thing.  If it hadn't been for a passing rodeo clown pulling her out of the stall, she would have."

"That's horrible," Molly exclaimed.  "Not that she didn't die, I mean," she stammered in response to Sherlock's raised eyebrow.  "I'm glad that she didn't die.  I meant that it's horrible she was attacked by her horse.  Did...did they figure out what caused it?"

"Not yet."

"You're worried, aren't you?" Molly asked hesitantly.  "I know Ms. Ross thinks that somebody's targeting the Triple C.  You think she's right.  That's why you're here aren't you?  At the rodeo, I mean.  Not to help wrangle the horses—though I'm sure you're needed—but to see if you can figure out what's going on."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, shocked by Molly's unexpected flash of insight.  "How did you—?"

Molly raised her chin.  "I saw the different sample containers in the veterinary barn.  They aren't mine and Doctor Watson keeps everything in his truck.  You're the only other person at the Triple C who has a copy of the key.  Ms. Ross told me."  Molly licked her lips nervously.  "I know you're the expert and I don't know what, exactly, you're looking for, but...if there's anything you need, anything I can help with, you can have me.  Sorry.  That came out wrong," Molly stammered, her cheeks turning a vibrant coral against her pale skin.  "My help, I mean.  If you need somebody to look at samples or run tests, or, or whatever, I can help.  I have access to a lab through college."

"Thank you…" Sherlock said slowly, looking sideways at Molly.  He hadn't expected her to be so observant, nor had he expected the offer, but it could prove to be quite useful if Donovan wasn't able to secure him the access he required to a full forensic lab.  "I'll keep that in mind."

"You're welcome," Molly said, looking oddly shy and pleased.  "Listen, I was wondering—later, that is—if you'd like to—"  The sound of a short, shrill whistle cut off whatever Molly was attempting to say.  She wrinkled her nose, but her expression was one of exasperation and resignation, rather than anger at being interrupted.  "Come on," she explained at Sherlock's puzzled expression as she hurriedly unbuckled her seatbelt.  "That's the boss telling us to circle up.  Come on!"   

"Hooper, Scott, good of ya to join us," Candii Ross greeted them brusquely when Sherlock and Molly hurried up and joined the rest of the crowd standing in the car park a few moments later.

Sherlock grimaced.  The sun was already blisteringly hot, despite the early hour.  He could feel prickles of sweat already dampening the armpits of his shirt.  A fat horsefly began buzzing around his face, no doubt seeking an easy meal.  Why certain, biting insects seemed to prefer his blood-type, Sherlock had no idea, but it didn't make it any less annoying.  Or painful.  With a blinding fast movement, Sherlock flicked his right hand through the air, smacking the insect in mid-flight, stunning it and causing it to fall to the ground where he casually crushed it with the toe of his boot.

"Nice one, Scott," Cole Johnson commented, his admiration plain.

"Thanks," Sherlock commented, making no effort to hide his smug satisfaction.

"Do you ever play darts?  Or beer pong?"

"I—" Sherlock began, only to fall silent when Candii Ross suddenly let out a shrill whistle.  It was somewhere between an F and an F# and the dissonance of it made Sherlock's teeth ache.

"Alright, y'all," Candii announced, clapping her hands together sharply, "this is how this weekend is going to be.  I still suspect somebody's out to get the Triple C.  As Nat already laid out to y'all, we'll be taking this weekend in paired shifts to keep an eye on the horses at all times.  All y'all's paychecks gonna reflect that.  Baxter, Scott, Owen, George," Candii began pointing a vermillion-tipped finger to indicate the named employees, "yer in charge of unloading the trailers.  Hooper, Turner, yer in charge of feed, checking the corral and checking the stock after unloading to make sure they're all fit ta compete.  If they aren't, call me.  I'll be fillin' out forms and such at the office, but I'll have my phone on me.  Johnson, George, you're up for guard duty first.  Make sure nobody has a chance to slip my horses anything.  Rogers, Weeks, Harrington, Juarez," she continued, pointing at four other employees.  "Get the trailers cleaned out and ready to go again.  Once everything's done, y'all can take turns and have a chance to relax.  Any questions?" Candii asked, running a sharp gaze over the circle, prompting employees to nod.  "No?  Then move it people," Candii barked.  "We're burnin' daylight!"    

~*~

"Back, back, what's gotten into you, Girandola?  For fuck's sake, hold him Billy!" Edith yelled as she struggled to unclip a lead line from the trailer's front tether bar.  The angry, black-pointed dun gelding on the other end made it a challenge to do so.

"I _am._ " Sherlock grunted, his muscles straining as he fought to keep the gelding from rearing and banging its head on the ceiling of the trailer.  It was a struggle.  The horse outweighed him by a good hundred and six stone and simple physics meant that he had very little chance of wrestling an animal that weighed over sixteen hundred pounds by brute force alone.

Fortunately, Sherlock had some tricks up his sleeve.

Girandola's jumpy behavior made it apparent that he was paying attention to everything but the humans holding his lead.  The fastest way to regain the horse's respect was to distract him by making him move his feet.

" _Vatican Cameos!_ " Sherlock shouted, using the Triple C's code-phrase that Nat had taught him earlier that week.  Since the majority of the Triple C's bucking strings were named after various permutations of fire, shouted warnings of 'Fire in the Hole!' could easily be misconstrued.  Like the arcane nautical terminology of sailors, ranch employees often encountered situations where a shouted warning or order could mean the difference between safety and serious injury, if not death.  Hence the unambiguous phrase that warned the Triple C's staff 'unhappy horse coming through, likely at a high rate of speed, stand clear of any doors'.

Sherlock turned so he was facing the struggling gelding head on, taking a grip on the lead rope with his left hand instead of his right.  At the same time, he flicked his right wrist, dropping the training wand in the sheath strapped to his forearm down and deploying it to its full four-foot length.  He glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Edith before jerking on the gelding's lead line to gain a little slack.  The moment Edith released the clip, the gelding snorted and began running backwards out of the trailer.  Sherlock followed, flicking the lead line to make the horse back up even faster as they shot out of the dim trailer and into the sunlight. 

The staff had heeded his warning, leaving him a nice clear space in which to work.  As soon as the gelding's feet were clear of the trailer, Sherlock began to lunge him in a circle.  When Girandola began to slow, Sherlock urged him on faster with tongue clicks and flicks of the line attached to the end of the training wand.  After five minutes of intense lunging, he stopped Girandola to assess him.

The gelding snorted and tossed his head, his ears flicking back and forth rapidly as he watched Sherlock.  Whatever had gotten into him earlier, he was now focusing all of his attention on Sherlock's body language and following his cues.

"Good boy," Sherlock murmured, releasing the pressure and leading Girandola towards the round pen where the other horses from the Triple C were being temporarily held until they were moved to the competition arena's holding pens.  The gelding followed along amicably enough, but the swishing of his tail and the twitching of his ears made it clear that he wasn't completely relaxed.   _Not unexpected_ , Sherlock mused, considering that they were in a new environment, but still, it troubled him.  "I thought Molly said Ms. Ross's horses led as nicely as anything and were desensitized to rodeos," Sherlock complained to Alice Turner as she obligingly opened the gate for him.

"They are and most of them do," Alice retorted cheerfully, swinging the gate closed behind Sherlock and Girandola.  She pushed the brim of her cream-coloured Stetson up to better make eye contact.  "But this is pretty normal," she continued, brown eyes sparkling.  "Think how you would feel if you'd been cooped up in a hot car for hours and hours with your siblings picking on you and no chance to stretch your legs?  You'd probably be stir-crazy too!  Hell, my brothers and I 'bout kicked each other's shins to pieces whenever Momma wasn't watchin'."

Sherlock suppressed a shudder with effort.  Mummy had been nigh fanatical about Sherlock competing in equestrian sports, crisscrossing the country most weekends during the height of the show season.  Mycroft had often been dragged along as the unwilling accompaniment.  While Mycroft would never stoop to undignified whining or sulking, he'd nevertheless found other ways to...express his displeasure at being forced to spend hours in a motorcar at the behest of somebody else's schedule.

Ways that he still employed as an adult.   

Mycroft hadn't been given the nickname 'Ice Man' by his peers for nothing.

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the train of thought to refocus on the matter at hand.  Alice's explanation for the horse's behavior wasn't wrong, (horses could and did get stir crazy) but it felt insufficient.  More importantly, he'd learned to trust his subconscious impressions.  "That may be," Sherlock began, unclipping the lead from Girandola's halter and smacking the gelding lightly on the flank to urge him along, "but something seems off—"

George Tredinnick, who was approaching with another gelding overheard them and snorted.  "Naw.  Alice's right.  They're always a bit spooky after travel.  Plus you've got Girandola there, Bill.  He's always been a handful.  Nice trick with the rope, by the way."

"Thank you.  It's elementary, really," Sherlock began, coiling the rope into a compact bundle with the ease of long habit.  "One just needs to—"

"BILLY!"

Sherlock looked over.  Edith had her hands full with a mare that was throwing her head up in agitation.  It was clear from the mare's wide eyes that she was about two seconds from bolting.  Sherlock didn't wait for Alice to reopen the gate, he just vaulted over the metal fence and hurried back to the trailers to help.

" _Jeeesus_ ," Edith gasped when the last horse was safely escorted out of the trailers and secured into the holding pen.  She winced and rotated her right shoulder where something had apparently gotten pulled.  "Did somebody put coffee in their feed buckets instead of grain this morning?  They're ornery as hell today!"

"Pfft.  You're exaggerating," Alice laughed, checking to make sure the ramp for one of the trailers was firmly latched.  

"I am not," Edith grumbled.  She bent down and braced her hands on her bent knees, stretching out some of the muscles in her back.  "Ow.  Whoever I hook up with tonight better be as good at back rubs as givin' me a ride."  Edith straightened up with an audible 'pop' and twisted from side to side in an attempt to work the kinks out of her back.  "As it is, I'm gonna have trouble walkin' tomorrow," she complained.

"I'll keep my eyes peeled for 'Three Circuits' Watson and try and send him your way if I see him," Alice said with a cheeky grin.  "Or were you exaggerating then too when you told me how much fun you had when you invited him for a roll in the hay?"

"Nope," Edith retorted with a disgustingly smug leer.  "I wasn't exaggerating at _all_.  That man is a master stallion in the bedchamber _and_ he knows how to use his hands…"

"Now you're just bragging," Alice mock-scolded.  "Callie—over in Tucson—she said the dick was good, but the Doc's tongue was what made her a believer…"

Sherlock felt his hackles rise at the women's casual discussion of John's sexual prowess.  Did they think John's only value lay in his genitals?  Did they not appreciate the veterinarian's beautiful, cornflower blue eyes or the way the sun turned his hair gold?  Were they so quick to pursue meaningless orgasms that they completely ignored John's steady nature and his unexpectedly wry sense of humor?  Some of his resentment must have shown on his face, because Molly stepped up beside him and laid a consolatory hand on his arm.

"You look upset.  Is something wrong?  Is one of the horses acting strange?" Molly asked gently.  She followed Sherlock's gaze to where Alice and Edith were standing together, laughing and presenting what would no doubt be considered a very fetching picture if the body language of some of the other cowboys was any indicator.  "Oh, I see," Molly said softly, biting her lip and looking away.  She reached up and tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind one ear.  "You know, she'd probably say yes if you asked her," Molly said with obviously forced nonchalance.

"Sorry?"

"Alice or Edith, whichever one you're looking at," Molly explained with a stammer at Sherlock's puzzled expression.  "Edith especially.  She's not picky."  Molly winced, her shoulders cringing slightly.  "Sorry, that came out really badly.  I mean she's really confident and outgoing.  She enjoys dating, so she'd probably say yes if you asked her out."

Sherlock harrumphed, trying to ignore Molly in favor of gleaning more information about John.  

The hot wind gusted, bringing them Alice's good-natured jibe about her friend's preference for 'built blonds'.  Sherlock tried—and failed—to suppress a surge of envious bile at Edith's retort, which included a particularly lewd observation about John's stamina and his preference for brunettes.

"I know Texas is a Bible Belt state, but women are just as entitled as men to enjoy a night of Netflix and chilling, no matter what the politicians and pastors may think," Molly added, apparently seeing—and misinterpreting—Sherlock's frown.  "If you're offended by the idea of women having lots of casual sex and enjoying it—"     

"I have no interest in pursuing sexual congress with Edith Baxter," Sherlock interrupted huffily, too annoyed with Molly's assumption to bother censoring himself.  "Nor do I care who she engages in carnal relations with.  I find such speculation to be incredibly dull."

"Then...why are you so frowny?" Molly asked, clearly confused.  

"I am _annoyed_ —" Sherlock stressed the word, "—because John Watson is an incredibly competent veterinarian as well as being a compassionate and courageous man.  He deserves to be appreciated for his many admirable character traits, instead of having his value arbitrarily assigned based on the size of his penis and his ability to be a satisfying sexual partner."

Molly blinked and blinked again.  "I...see," she said after a moment, her tone speculative and still tinged with disappointment.  "So are you and he...?"

"Don't look for romantic entanglements where there aren't any," Sherlock snapped, forcing himself to ignore the uncomfortable ache in his chest.  "John and I are friends."  At least he hoped they were friends.  He enjoyed John's company and John certainly seemed to enjoy his.  They'd shared a meal together and it had been fun.  Wasn't that what friends did?  John had also displayed clear signs of sexual attraction: lip-licking, lingering gazes, innuendo and jealousy when Sherlock had mentioned Donovan.  Why else would John go out of his way to seek out Sherlock's company if he didn't like him?

" _And therein lies the rub,_ " came a treacherous part of Sherlock's mind that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft.  " _He could simply be playing a role to get past your guard, like you do so often.  Until you can definitively prove his innocence, you shouldn't trust him, baby brother_."

 _Shut.  Up._ Sherlock ordered his mind.  John wasn't like Victor.  John's earnestness and sincerity radiated from every pore.  Donovan's suspicions about John perhaps being behind Devil's Blaze's change in behavior were just that, suspicions.  Thus far, he'd seen nothing in either the medical records or conduct to indicate otherwise.  Drugging John and hacking his banking records to prove his innocence would be a mere formality.   

Realizing that Molly was still eyeing him with decided skepticism, Sherlock forced himself back into his role as 'Billy'.  It wouldn't do to blow his cover through a show of careless temper.  He dropped his chin and began scuffing the toe of his right boot in the dry dirt.  It was a gesture designed to make him look appealingly young.  "Momma taught me that looks weren't the important thing, what was inside and what somebody could do was what mattered," Sherlock mumbled, deliberately shooting Molly a bashful look from under his lashes.  It was technically true.  Granted, his mother had been referring to equine pedigrees and conformation, rather than humans, but Molly didn't need to know that.

Molly didn't look fully convinced, but when Sherlock bit his bottom lip and gave her a purposely shy smile, her lips reluctantly curved in response.  "I hate to say this, Billy, but you're a lot more enlightened than maybe seventy-five percent of the cowboys on the rodeo circuit."

Sherlock allowed his shy smile to become a full-fledged grin, making sure to flash his dimples in a bid to win over Molly's remaining skepticism.  

It worked.  

"So um...do you want to go explore the fairgrounds together later?" Molly asked hopefully, fidgeting with her hair again.

"I've love to," Sherlock said, forcing himself to feign an enthusiasm he did not feel.  The thought of subjecting himself to the crowd was tedious, (to say the least), but he needed Molly's continued cooperation, especially in light of her offer for better laboratory access.

"Great!" Molly exclaimed, flushing in unmistakable pleasure.  "I'm glad.  Um, what time did you want to take your break?"

Sherlock made a show of glancing down at his watch.  "How about—"  

"Hey Molly!  Can you come take a look at this cut on Tetry's leg?" Owen yelled from behind them.  "It looks like one of the other horses may have kicked her."

"Coming!  Let me just grab my kit!" Molly yelled back.  "Sorry," she said apologetically to Sherlock.

"It's fine," Sherlock replied, waving her off.  "Go be Doctor Hooper."

"Right...I guess I'll catch you later."  With a last smile, Molly scurried off, leaving Sherlock alone.

With a private sigh of relief, Sherlock let his gaze wander back over the fairgrounds.  Alice and Edith were still giggling quietly together—no doubt still discussing the vagaries of different sexual partners.  Sherlock spared a moment for a private sneer before turning his attention to the different herds of horses milling about in the paddocks around him.  Alice's assertions of stir-crazy horses aside, Edith's comments and his own observations made it clear (to him at least, even if not to anybody else) that the Triple C's horses were acting more skittish than usual.  None of the animals were taking advantage of the hay or water that Cole and Molly had placed in the pen earlier.  Instead, the entire herd was picking their way around the pen, heads up and ears pricked forward, nervously scanning for whatever threat they sensed.

And they weren't the only ones.  The herd two pens over was acting similarly wary.

Sherlock tilted his head as first one, and then a second, and finally a third horse threw their heads up and flehmed, their muzzles pointed upwind.  Sherlock moved closer and sniffed.  He couldn't detect any unusual odors—just the standard reek of heated oil, manure, lorry exhaust, sweat and dust that accompanied fairground events.  Horses had keener senses of smell than humans did (though not nearly as keen as a dog's), so it was possible that they were smelling something from farther off.

The question was what?

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock focused his attention in the grounds upwind of the pens.  Looking downwind was a waste of time; scent wasn't carried that way.  There was a great deal of activity, but nothing stood out as immediately suspicious.  

Even though the rodeo wasn't due to open for several more hours, the fairground was swarming with people.  In the distance, vendors were setting up booths, tables and portable amusement rides.  Up closer, cowboys and cowgirls were unloading trailers full of horses, cattle and sheep.  Others individuals were busy coiling up ropes, filling water tanks and raking the floor of an outdoor arena.  A group of men in luridly coloured outfits and cowboy hats was clustered around a group of equally-vibrant painted barrels stood off to one side.  An exceptionally stocky man was wearing a green cowboy hat and a shirt that young Boy George would have considered fashionable.  He was busy talking to a clean shaven man wearing a white polo shirt and holding a microphone.  An extremely tall black woman in a navy polo was videotaping the exchange.  

 _Press, undoubtedly_ , Sherlock decided.  Judging by the body language, the man in the green hat was trying to persuade the reporter to climb into the large red barrel standing upright between them.  After a few moments of ribbing, the reporter obliged, handing his microphone to the woman with the camera.  The barrel was then turned on its side and given a healthy kick by one of the men, causing the hapless reporter inside to yelp.  The crowd burst into raucous laughter that carried clearly across to where Sherlock was standing.  Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust.  Public school students or adults, what _was_  it about crowds taking pleasure in another person's fright or discomfort?

With a flick of his head Sherlock dismissed the distracting shard of memory in favor of focusing on the Work.  There was something about the crowd that was tweaking at the edge of his consciousness, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it.  The longer he stared, the more the thought shimmered out of reach, like one of the minnows or frogs he used to try and catch in the garden pond back home.

No matter.  The facts didn't lie.  Neither did horses.  Sooner or later he'd find the evidence he sought.

~*~

"I can't believe you've never actually attended a rodeo before, Billy," Molly remarked as the two of them wove their way through the crowd packing the fairgrounds several hours later.  

"Why should I have?" Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, his nose wrinkling at the misima of sensory input he was experiencing.  The sun overhead was blisteringly hot and the air was thick with the scents of sawdust, manure, tobacco, cologne, spray-on deodorants, popcorn, smoked meats, hot metal and the rich, oily smell of fried foods.  Sherlock paused to let a man and his screaming child walk past.  The toddler was covered with something violently purple and sticky that reeked of artificial grape flavouring; the father's expression was harried and it was clear he was regretting the purchase of some oversized sugary concoction with experience born through hindsight.  "I work with rescue animals and thoroughbreds, mostly," Sherlock continued, keeping up his cover story.  "My clients generally need training eight days out of the week.  I don't exactly have a great deal of spare time."  The misnumbering set his teeth on edge, but the exaggeration was necessary for his persona.  

"I guess that makes sense," Molly said doubtfully.  "But that seems kind of sad.  What's that old saying?  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?"

"The Work is never dull," Sherlock corrected sharply.  "It is the most important thing to me.  Nothing else matters."

Molly shrugged dismissively.  "Well I'm glad you agreed to take a break and come explore with me like you promised, at least.  It's nice, having somebody to chat with."  

She gave Sherlock a bright smile and Sherlock echoed it automatically, his eyes still busily scanning the surrounding crowd for any hints of somebody acting suspiciously.  He saw the rodeo clown, Fizzy Simpson, hurry by, clad in a shimmery satin candy-striped button-down in shades of hot pink and light blue and a pair of baggy denim trousers sewn over with orange felt stars.  The clown's distinctive red hat was clamped down firmly over his head, the brim partially obscuring his face.  As Sherlock watched, the rodeo clown was approached by a family with two small children, no doubt hoping for a photo opportunity, since both children were wearing highly fanciful western outfits, complete with an abundance of fringe and spangles.  Sherlock winced: it was as bad as some of the garb in the cowboy-themed pubs back home.  The clown said something to the man, who responded by pulling out his wallet and handing the clown several bills.  A moment later, the clown was on his knees, posing with the little girl on one side and the little boy on the other while the mother squealed and clasped her hands together in delight.

"Ooooh, this is going to be hard," Molly said suddenly, her voice sounding torn.  "They've got funnel cakes _and_ fried Rice Krispy Treats right beside each other.  What do you think, Billy?  Anything in particular look good?"

Sherlock turned away from watching the photographic tableau only to raise an eyebrow in horrified disbelief.  The food trailers that Molly was eyeing with unmistakable interest were covered with lurid photographs advertising a variety of improbable fried foodstuffs.  There were pictures of deep-fried cheese toasties and giant battered sausages on sticks.  There were fried hard boiled eggs, (which bore more than a passing resemblance to Scotch eggs), fried cheese curds, prairie oysters (which made absolutely no sense, since prairies, by definition were landlocked plains without a large body of water in sight) and something called a 'Cheezy Gringo'.  Based on the picture, it consisted of an enormous fried baked potato topped with macaroni cheese, bacon bits and an impressive amount of soured cream.  

And that was only a sampling of the _savory_ options available.

There were also signs advertising fried cakes covered with icing sugar, fried chocolate custard creams, chocolate-covered scorpions, chocolate-covered bacon, deep fried pecan pie on a stick, deep fried cookie dough, and something called 'Roadkill" that was described as a flattened cinnamon sugar puff pastry that had been fried and then lavishly sprinkled with chocolate chips, chopped berries, drizzled with raspberry sauce, vanilla icing, peach sauce, sour apple syrup and whipped cream.  Sherlock's fingers itched with the temptation to pull out his phone and snap a photograph to send to his brother.  The only pity was that he wouldn't be able to witness the expression on Mycroft's face when he opened the text.

"I'm...not hungry.  We _did_ have lunch two hours ago," Sherlock objected weakly, only to 'ooph' in surprise when Molly gently shoulder-chucked him in the diaphragm.  

"I know we had lunch silly!" Molly mock-scolded.  "But that's not the point!  Half the fun of exploring a rodeo is eating treats that would make you sick to your stomach if you ate them every day.  Come on.  Have some fun.  You can't be a real cowboy if your stomach can't handle fried corn on the cob or fried diamondback rattlesnake!"

 _Oh_.  Clearly this was a part of his disguise he'd neglected.

"In that case, you betcha," Sherlock replied, deliberately invoking the use of a Montana colloquialism.  His palate wasn't nearly as broad as Mycroft's, unfortunately.  His ten-year-old self had once asked Mycroft how he could possibly eat a fish that still had its head attached.  Mycroft had bluntly informed him that the unspoken rule of international business dinners was 'don't question it, just shut up and eat it,' before explaining to Sherlock—in explicit detail—how Cook's Stargazy pie had nothing on sannakji, dancing shrimp, Yin-Yang fish or katsu ika odori don.  

 _Mycroft had a point_ , Sherlock thought begrudgingly as he watched two laughing women walk by, their mouths liberally smeared with strawberry sauce, ice cream and hundreds-and-thousands topping the fried...somethings they were sharing from the paper bowl one woman held.  Even the most sugar-frosted, saturated-fat-stuffed-item on offer would be less off-putting than Natto, Balut, or—God forbid—Casu Marzu.  Still, foodstuffs interfered with his brainwork.  "I'm feeling a bit parched," Sherlock announced.  "How does a cold cherry lime ditch sound?"  He wasn't thirsty, not really, but the lie might buy him a few minutes of respite from Molly's cheerful prattle.  Plus a sudden infusion of glucose might counteract the residual sluggishness from the lunch he'd been forced to consume.

"A...what?"

"Oh, sorry.  A cherry limeade," Sherlock replied, translating the slang.  "Since it seems unlikely that Arizona would offer 'Moose Drool' or 'Scape Goat' on tap.  They're beers," Sherlock explained, correctly interpreting Molly's confused expression.

"Oh.  Okay."  Molly tucked a wayward strand of hair behind one ear.  "I probably should have guessed that," she added with a self-conscious laugh.  "There are a lot of strangely-named beers at the liquor store, after all.  'Arrogant Bastard Ale,' 'Old Peculier' and 'Cooee' and 'Ballarat Blond'."    

Sherlock set his teeth and managed an approximate facsimile of a smile.  "Indeed," he replied, stopping at the end of a promisingly-long line.  "Oh," he said abruptly, as if he had just noticed something.  

"What?" Molly asked, her voice concerned.

Sherlock grimaced, feigning concern.  "This may take a while, and I know we don't have a great deal of time before we have to report back.  Tell you what, how about we split up?" Sherlock asked, purposely making his tone hesitant so it wouldn't sound like he was trying to get rid of her.  "I'll stay here and get us a couple of drinks while you go get us a snack?"  

Molly bit her lip, then nodded.  "Okay.  If we do that, we should at least have a little bit of time to see the babies at the petting zoo before we have to get back."

Sherlock stretched his lips up again in another insincere expression of approval.  "So...What would you like?"

"Oh, limeade's fine.  I like a cold beer just as much as the next country girl, but the stuff you buy here tastes like horse urine."  Seeing Sherlock's raised eyebrow, Molly blushed.  "Not that I've ever actually _drunk_ horse urine," she added hurriedly, "that's just the way I've heard the beer sold at rodeos described and since it's almost the exact same colour and so horribly diluted, it won't even give you a buzz."

"I see," Sherlock replied faintly a bit horrified by the torrent of information.  He decided not to mention that he had, in fact done so.  Once.  By accident.  As sensitive as his olfactory nerves and taste receptors were, it was easier to document his results using properly calibrated laboratory equipment.  The worst part hadn't been the taste, (which had been revolting), but Mrs. Hudson's unspoken air of "I told you to label your experiments and not reuse containers, dear" smug superiority.    

"Right...um...okay...so I'll meet you at a table under the center pavilion in twenty minutes or so?" Molly asked after studying the length of the line again, apparently oblivious to Sherlock's train of thought.   

"Fine."  Sherlock watched Molly scurry off before facing forward and letting his smile fall away.  He knew, (intellectually at least), that feigning interest in somebody for an ulterior motive was socially considered a Bit Not Good, but guilt wasn't an emotion he felt particularly inclined to waste time feeling if he could avoid it.  The Work demanded absolute devotion and if some infatuated person's feelings got hurt in his pursuit of the truth, well, it wouldn't be the first time.

The sun was brilliantly hot overhead and Sherlock found himself absurdly grateful for the shade of his ridiculous hat, which kept the worst of the sun's rays away from his face.  Around him, the crowd resembled nothing so much as a herd of cattle, lowing and jostling each other with a cheerful disregard of personal space that set his teeth on edge.  The queue inched forward by increments at a speed that rivaled that of a lazy garden snail.  Apparently Americans were incapable of making their food selections quickly.  It was worse than that one, miserable period in his life when he'd been compelled to do his own shopping at Tesco.  Thank God for Mrs. Hudson and her willingness to add his shopping to her own.  The additional time he could devote to The Work was well worth the extra pounds added to his rent each month.    

He'd barely moved a half-dozen steps forward when he heard himself being hailed.    

"Billy!  Hey Billy!  It's John Watson!  Wait up!"

Sherlock turned to see John Watson running towards him, a brilliant smile on his face.

"Fancy meeting you here," John gasped, sliding to a stop next to Sherlock, heedless of the glares he was garnering from idiots who probably thought he was attempting to cut the queue.  He was breathing hard from his sprint across the fairgrounds.  Still panting, John dropped the oversized plastic toolbox he'd been carrying on the ground and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

Sherlock swallowed hard.  John Watson looked simply _edible_.  It was hyperbole, of course.  He was hardly one to practice ritualized cannibalism—the risk of kuru was small but still present and he would not risk mutated pyrons damaging his most valuable asset—but the sentiment was unmistakable.  John was wearing a fitted black polo with his last name embroidered in white on the front underneath an embroidered Rod of Asclepius overlain with the letter 'V'.  The sigil was the official seal of the American Veterinary Medical Association and clearly identified John as a member of the medical profession.  But since the average idiot was prone to overlooking such comparatively subtle identifiers, the word 'VETERINARIAN' was clearly printed in large block letters across the back of his shirt.  The short sleeves of the polo emphasized John's bulging biceps and the dark color highlighted the golden-bronze hue of his skin.  John had hung a pair of sunglasses in his unbuttoned collar, drawing attention to the strong line of his throat and his suprasternal notch.  As Sherlock watched, a single bead of sweat paused there before continuing its journey downward and vanishing.      

The need for a chilled beverage suddenly became far more pressing.  

"It is a rodeo, and my current employer is a stock contractor," Sherlock drawled, more to cover his discomfort than to put John off.  

"Smart ass," John giggled, the creases around his eyes and mouth crinkling endearingly as he gazed up at Sherlock.  He straightened up and rested one hand on his cocked hip.  "No, really.  What are you doing here in Arizona?  I thought you'd be back in Texas, busy working with Devil's Blaze or something."

"Normally I would," Sherlock admitted, taking another step forward as the queue finally began to advance.  "But Ms. Ross wanted me to help keep an eye on the bucking strings she brought to compete."

"Makes sense...so you'll be here for the entire weekend then?" John asked, his tone eager.  

"That would follow, yes."

"Good.  That's good.  Me too, I mean, I'll be here all weekend.  I saw that the Triple C was bringing one of the bucking strings.  I didn't think I'd be lucky enough to see you here.  I'm glad I was wrong," John added with an eyebrow waggle and another beguiling grin.

John's words made something in Sherlock's chest bloom with sudden warmth, but almost immediately he heard Mycroft's supercilious purr of "one lonely, naive man, desperate to show off...and a man clever enough to make him feel special…" in the back of his mind.  It had been a sharp lesson and the bitter dregs of Victor's betrayal still stung after all these years.  John's signs of sexual attraction were unmistakable, but they could also be faked, as he'd so aptly demonstrated to the unfortunate Molly Hooper just thirty minutes prior.  The best thing would be to play along for the time being.  John Watson was a _suspect,_  Sherlock reminded himself for what felt like the sextillionth time.  Somebody to be considered guilty until proven innocent.  "Doing what?  Are you competing?" Sherlock asked aloud, raising a single eyebrow.  The idea of watching John on the back of a bucking bronco had potential.  Perhaps he'd observe something significant.

Unfortunately, John shook his head, dashing Sherlock's private hopes.  "Nope.  Chance to compete would be a fine thing, but I'm just working this weekend."  He gestured, indicating the shirt and the toolbox as if Sherlock were some sort of idiot incapable of observing the evidence with his own.  "There's an event coming up next month that I'm hoping to go to," John continued, "assuming I can scrape together the entry fees, that is."

"I would have thought being a veterinarian would be a lucrative career," Sherlock said with deliberate casualness.  Donovan mentioned that Candii Ross was paying Doctor Sawyer's clinic, rather than John Watson directly, but he'd still seen the invoices for some of the veterinary services rendered.  John Watson should be if not well off, at least capable of purchasing himself a new phone or paying the several hundred dollars for an entry fee.

"It can be, if you can get your own clinic going," John replied vaguely.  "I'm hoping to do so someday, but I gotta take care of some other stuff first."

Interesting.  Debt and a noticeable reluctance to discuss it in detail.

"So how _is_  Candii Ross's favorite Devil doing?" John asked, changing the subject abruptly.

"He is doing better," Sherlock replied taking another step forward.  "He's finally allowing me to touch him—though he's still charging me on occasion.  My next objective is to get a halter on him so I can start groundwork."

"How is that going to work?"

"Mostly by making the correct thing easy, and the wrong behavior difficult.  Once he's wearing a halter, I'll be able to—Oh, two limeades please," Sherlock said abruptly, realizing that they'd finally arrived at the window  

"And for you?" the bored-looking teenager was standing behind the glass asked, directing his inquiry towards John.

"Oh, nothing for me, thanks," John said, shaking his head wryly.  

"That'll be fourteen dollars even," the teller announced.

Sherlock grimaced.  The prices were absurdly high.  Back in London, he could get a halfway decent cocktail or even a complete meal at Angelo's for that amount.  He spent a moment fumbling with the unfamiliar American currency before collecting his drinks and moving aside.

"So…where to now?" John asked, rocking back on his heels.  "The pavilion to find a seat?"

"Naturally," Sherlock quipped, making sure to keep his steps slow enough that John would feel welcome to accompany him.  "I need to spend at least some time in some shade."

"Yeah, I can see that," John replied, studying Sherlock's face critically.  "It looks like you're starting to burn a bit on your nose and cheeks, despite your hat.  Have you applied sunblock recently?"

Sherlock shook his head, even as he ruthlessly commandeered an empty table before a family of four could claim it.

"You idiot," John scolded, taking a seat on the bench across from Sherlock, apparently oblivious to the family's glare.  "Fortunately for you, _I_ come prepared."  He set his medical kit down on the table with a thump, opened the lid and begin rooting around inside.  Curious, Sherlock leaned forward to study the contents.  Various medications and supplies were neatly arranged in trays.  Smaller containers were neatly stacked in the bottom, each filled with packets of sterile needles, gauze, adhesive strips and swabs.  There was an aerosol can of disinfectant, and another of some sort of topical analgesic.  With a soft crow of victory, John pulled the sun cream free from its slot and passed it over.     

Accepting the tube, Sherlock squirted a generous amount into the palm of his hand and begin rubbing it into his skin, paying close attention to the back of his neck, his ears, his cheeks and the tip of his nose.  He grimaced slightly at the sickly-sweet artificial coconut scent it contained.  Worse was the unpleasantly greasy feeling the lotion left behind on his skin.  Clearly John Watson purchased the very cheapest product available.  His only hope was that the 'SPF 100!' label was indeed accurate, otherwise he was going to end up with freckles like _Mycroft_.  Sherlock paused, seeing John looking at him with amusement.  "What?"

"Nothing," John said, grinning.  "Just...You've got a streak of sunblock on your face.  You look like you're going to war or something."

"Oh," Sherlock wiped at his cheek with the back of his right hand, deliberately missing the smear.  "Did I get it?"

"Nope.  Little higher," John answered, miming the location on his own face.

"Better?" Sherlock asked, purposely brushing his hand too low to wipe away the cool lotion he could feel clinging to his overheated skin.

"Still nope," John replied.  "You missed it again.  Hold on, I can get it, if you don't mind?" John offered, his voice going husky.

"Please," Sherlock said, holding himself obediently still as John leaned across the table and brushed gentle fingers across his cheekbones, wiping the excess lotion away.  Sherlock swallowed hard.  His already-warm skin felt like it was on fire.  This close, he could smell the intoxicating blend of John's cologne and clean sweat.  It was a heady combination, bringing to mind his fantasy several weeks ago.   _Stop it!_  he ordered his transport as his body began to react to the memory.  Erections were generally inconvenient at the best of times, but somehow sporting one in public was even worse.

"There," John breathed, resuming his seat, apparently oblivious to the turmoil he'd sown.  "All gone."

"Thank you."  Sherlock took a quick sip of his limeade to soothe his burning throat.  "That was...good."

"Any time," John replied, reaching across the table and helping himself to Sherlock's limeade with brazenness that was somehow appealing, rather than aggravating.  "Ah, that's good," he added, setting the cup back down.  

Sherlock found himself absurdly mesmerized by the flash of John's tongue as he licked a drop of chilled liquid off of his bottom lip.  If he kissed John, would the other man's tongue be cool from the crushed ice, or would it be warm like his hands?  Would John taste like tart limes and sugar, or something better?    

Sherlock blinked, abruptly called back to himself.  He was supposed to be flirting and seducing John Watson so he could hack his computer and study his bank balance.  First inconvenient erections at inopportune times, and now thoughts of salival exchange with a relative stranger?  What _was_ it with his transport's betrayal?  He'd always prided himself on his ability to keep himself distant and divorce himself from attraction.  It was infuriating to feel his normally iron-clad self control be upended by something as simple as plebeian lust.  Sherlock coughed, once again trying to get himself back under control.  "So," he asked gruffly, "have you had any success diagnosing that unusual cattle behavior you consulted Sterndale about?  Now what?" Sherlock demanded when John tilted his head to one side and peered at him intently, a smile quirking his lips.

"Nothing just...you're clearly brilliant.  Your voice changes when you're thinking.  It's like you lose your accent.  I like it," John added hurriedly.  "It just makes me sad that somebody ever made you feel like you had to dumb yourself down to have a real conversation...are you alright, Billy?  You've gone pale."

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped, privately horrified that not only was he incapable of controlling his transport, he'd let his character slip so badly that John had successfully spotted it.  Mycroft would never let him hear the end of it if he learned of Sherlock's foolish mistake.  He needed to remember that John's affable expression and engaging nature hid an equally sharp mind.

"Sorry…" John stammered.  "I didn't mean to embarrass you—"

"I said I'm _fine!_ " Sherlock snapped.  "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, okay," John said, holding both hands up in a consolatory gesture.  "Calm down.  No need to get your panties in a twist."

"I'm a _man_ ," Sherlock said indignantly, trying to distract John from his inexcusable slip-up.  "Surely you've noticed that.  I would never wear something as undignified as silk _panties_ under my jeans."

John opened and closed his mouth several times, his face turning an interesting shade of pink.  "Ahh...good to know."  John coughed awkwardly and reached up to rub the back of his neck.  "Right...so to answer your question, erm no.  No, I haven't.  I ran a few more blood tests on the steer I had to euthanise, and I also had the lab run a toxicology on the stomach contents of one of the cattle.  I was hoping that maybe they'd eaten something that the owners had missed, but all tests came back clear.  My job would be a lot easier if Sterndale would cooperate, but that's been a dead end."

"When you say the cattle are being abnormally aggressive, how do you tell?  Especially in a profession where bulls and steers are specifically bred to buck?"  The more he could encourage John to talk, the less likely John was to dwell on his verbal slip-up.

John shrugged, his fingers idly tracing circles on the plastic table.  "It's kind of hard to define because a lot of it is based on experience.  Red flags—if you'll pardon the pun—include fighting with each other, actively attacking riders, not backing off when challenged by a clown, that sort of thing."

"I take it you speak from experience?"

"Yeah," John replied with a grimace.  "One of my buddies—Bill Murray—used to be a bull rider until he had a really bad wreck back in November.  The bull got him with one of his horns and it pretty much ended his career.  If he's lucky, he'll eventually be able to walk again.  That's why I prefer to ride broncos.  It's still damn dangerous, but I'll risk a few broken bones over having my insides rearranged any day."    

"But...I thought they clipped the horns of the bulls so they couldn't hurt anybody?" Sherlock asked, struggling to understand.

John laughed once, but it wasn't a mean laugh, it was more like it was a rueful acknowledgment of Sherlock's ignorance.  "Even blunted horns can do a lot of damage, Billy," John explained, his tone grim.  "Like a nail against a piece of wood that you hit with a hammer—if you take all that momentum and pressure and concentrate it, it's going to go through something.  The worst part is when a horn gets stuck in the abdominal region and pulled sideways, eviscerating the victim."

"What happens then?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew what the grim prognosis was likely to be.

John looked sad.  "Sometimes you can save the animal...sometimes you just remember your veterinary oath to minimize suffering."

"Oh," Sherlock said softly, thinking of Redbeard.  He bit his lip.  The pensive expression on John's face was making his own chest ache in sympathy.  He didn't like it.  It made him think of nights spent alone and lonely, of saying goodbye and starched private-school bedding soaked through with tears and mucus.  Some of his thoughts must have shown themselves on his face because John suddenly gave an awkward cough.     

"Sorry," John mumbled, "I...didn't mean to bring the mood down."

"It's fine," Sherlock said hurriedly.  "I was just thinking about a dog I used to have."

"Oh?  What type?" John asked, seizing on the conversational segue.

"An Irish Setter.  His name was Redbeard.  He was my best friend until I went away to school."

"What happened?" John asked gently.  "You grew up on a ranch, right?  Did somebody shoot him?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sherlock said hastily, even as he inwardly cursed his too-fast mouth.  Most Americans didn't go away to school unless they were referencing higher education—something that was less common in rural areas.  Fortunately, John hadn't seemed to notice the slip-up.  "He was diagnosed with Osteosarcoma.  My mother had him euthanized."  He kept his tone distant, unaffected, not allowing any of the bile churning in his stomach to manifest itself in either his voice or face. He'd told John the truth, just not the entire truth.  Mummy—and oh, how he loathed the early-imprint conditioning that made using the diminutive form of the noun habitual—had ordered one of the stable grooms to have Redbeard put down and his body disposed of while Sherlock was away at the Bailey's Horse Feeds Jumping and Style series.  He'd won the competition, but the victory had been hollow one, since he'd returned to find his beloved friend dead and discarded like so much rubbish.

"I'm sorry to hear that," John said his tone warm with sympathy.  "I had a favorite childhood dog when I was growing up too—a pitbull named Gladstone, but we always called him Gallstone, because that's what my grandma constantly complained about."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in invitation, prompting John to begin regaling him with a lively adventure involving his dog, a neighbor's stolen aluminium crutch, and a rubber duck.      

"Listen," John began in an undertone when Sherlock had finally stopped laughing.  He leaned forward across the table so his face was closer to Sherlock's.  "I was wondering, if maybe later—if you don't have any other plans that is—"

Unfortunately, whatever John was going to ask was abruptly interrupted by Molly's ill-timed return.

"Sorry, sorry!  I didn't think it would take me so long.  That line was crazy!" Molly exclaimed, her announcement causing John to jerk backwards, away from Sherlock.  "Did you get my limeade?" Molly asked, weaving her way through the crowd packing the tent with ease.  "I'm thirsty.  Also, I hope you like funnel cakes.  I couldn't decide between the red velvet or the cinnamon, so I got one of each," she announced cheerfully as she sat down beside Sherlock.  "Oh John, um hi!" Molly stammered, abruptly registering the other man's presence across the table.  "Uh...sorry.  I didn't see you there."

"It's fine," John replied, his expression suddenly tight, before smoothing out into something more amicable.  "Sorry...I didn't realize the two of you were here together."

"Yep!" Molly replied brightly.  "Billy, here, has apparently never been to a rodeo before.  Since the boss is having us report in shifts, I offered to show him around until we have to get back."  She gave Sherlock a flirtatious look, which he ignored.

"Seriously?  You've never been to a rodeo?" John looked at Sherlock, his expression askance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "As I already explained to Molly, my work is demanding.  Horses are creatures of habit and require a consistent routine.  Taking several days off from training can undo several weeks of progress.  I wouldn't even be here this weekend if Ms. Ross hadn't insisted."

"Which would be a shame.  You would have missed out on yummy funnel cakes, especially the red velvet ones with chocolate syrup," Molly piped up, breaking a piece off.  She held it up, clearly offering to feed it to Sherlock, but at his expressionless face, she shrugged and popped it into her own mouth with apparent gusto.  Still chewing, she shoved both plates towards Sherlock.  "Go on then," she mumbled encouragingly, her mouth still full.  "Try a bit.  They're best when they're still warm."

"I'll...uh, let you get back to it then," John said, shifting self-consciously from side to side.  "I don't want to monopolize your date."

It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to protest that Molly wasn't his date, but before he could, John tipped his hat and strode away, the slump of his shoulders almost imperceptible.

Molly tilted her head to one side, her expression scrutinizing as she watched John walk away.  "So...what were you talking about?" Molly asked with artful casualness.

"He was asking me how Devil's Blaze was doing," Sherlock said vaguely.  "Nothing important."  The sight of John's retreating back made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, almost guilty.  He didn't like it.  To distract himself, he broke off a piece of the proffered pastry.  It was warm and slightly oily against his fingertips.  With a dubious expression, he placed the cake on his tongue...and barely managed not to gag.  Whatever oil the cake had been fried in, it had been infused with the flavors of at least a dozen other foodstuffs.  He could taste fried bacon, fried chocolate and fried banana underlying the cinnamon and icing sugar saturating the cake.  He'd eaten worse—the Shepard's Pie in Osaka had that dubious honor—and it was apparent that Molly would be hurt if he didn't accept her offering.  An upset Molly was far less likely to cooperate.  Fixing his smile on his face, Sherlock sampled the red velvet cake.  It was slightly more tolerable.  The chocolate flavor masked some of the more offensive fragrances, but a better plan would be to distract Molly so she forgot the cakes entirely.  "So what did you want to see first?" Sherlock asked, breaking off another piece and beginning to crumble it between his fingers. 

"Well...I've always enjoyed watching the trick riders," Molly said musingly.  "Team roping is pretty exciting...but it might be a bit tricky to get seats.  Same thing with the cutting horse competition.  Oh, I know!  We can go by the petting zoo.  The otters and hedgehogs are super cute and you can feed the kangaroos and capybaras and the Fennec foxes.  I bet they don't have those back home in Montana, do they?"

"No, they don't," Sherlock replied, barely managing not to grimace at the thought of being surrounded by screaming children and even more traumatized animals.  "Sounds like fun!"

~*~

The memory of John's dejected posture as he'd strode away niggled uncomfortably at Sherlock's conscience, the same way a sensitive tooth ached when exposed to sudden temperature changes.  It wasn't sharply painful; he could ignore it for the most part, but the vague discomfort was insistent.  But why?  Why should John be so distressed at the idea of Sherlock sharing a funnel cake with Molly Hooper?  John clearly and visibly flirted with any woman around.  The ones he didn't make a pass at, he ogled with unashamed appreciation.  What right did he have to feel jealous when they weren't even a couple?

" _Ah, dear brother, you see but you do not observe_ ," Mycroft's voice whispered mockingly through his subconscious.  " _Especially when it comes to matters of the heart_."  

"Get out of my head, I am _busy!_ " Sherlock snarled.  The last thing he had time for was his brother's supercilious attitude.  

"What was that?" Edith asked, giving him a puzzled look.

"Sorry.  I was just thinking about...something," Sherlock apologized hurriedly, mortified.  He almost _never_ lost track of his surroundings severely enough to start arguing with his brother's mental projection aloud.  What _was_ it about John Watson's ability to disrupt his carefully cultivated self-control?    

"Well save your mental crises for after hours, we've gotta a job to focus on," Edith snapped impatiently, abruptly recalling Sherlock's attention to the here-and-now.

"Yes.  Of course," Sherlock stammered in Billy's soft lilt, still mentally cursing his slip up. "I'm sorry.  You were saying?"

"I said that Weeks and Harrington took care of the waterin', but you should go ahead and put a few more sections of fescue out in the nets to keep the herd preoccupied until showtime.  Alice and I are going to run and grab some gear from the trucks, but we should be back in fifteen, maybe thirty at the latest.  Keep an eye out for the bronc organizers—they should be comin' round any time now with the number assignments."

"Right.  What should I do if they arrive before you get back?"

"Just let them do their thing.  It shouldn't take long.  The staff'll be the ones responsible for putting on the rigging and loading the bucking chutes.  Our job will just be to oversee them and make sure nothing bad happens to any of the boss's babies.  Any other questions?"

"Do bad things happen often?"

"Nah," Edith replied shaking her head.  "I mean, occasionally some jerk may get bit overzealous with a cattle prod or a horse might crash into a fence, but that's pretty rare, despite what the PETA and SHARK loonies think.  We should be fine."

"Ms. Ross mentioned that she'd been accused of animal abuse, despite the lack of evidence.  Is that common?" Sherlock asked, his tone hesitant.

"Most stock contractors are at one point or another," Edith said wryly.  "Riley's PRESS blog isn't the only one out there, but she's definitely one of the more persistently obnoxious ones."

"Which is stupid," Alice chimed in.  "The boss's horses are among the most pampered around.  If they really cared about animals, they'd crack down on the people who always keep their horses in a stall, or in an itty-bitty pasture.  Hell, those idiots can't even tell a frightened horse from an excited one if it ran up and kicked them in the ass."

"I...see," Sherlock said slowly.  Alice's tone had a bit more venom than one would anticipate from casual conversation.  "I take it you've had your own first-hand encounters with some of these activists?" Sherlock asked, raising one eyebrow.  

"Yeah.  You could say that," Alice replied, her lip curling contemptuously.  "Bucking bronco and bull riders aren't the only ones targeted.  They like to go after barrel racers too—they claim the bits we use are too harsh and they claim that the only reason our horses are running is because they're scared.  Which is bullshit, if you'll pardon my French.  Simple fact is good racers like my June Bug just love to run.  We have more problems _stopping_  them once they get going than we do starting."    

"Ah.  Well, since Ms. Ross stressed the importance of keeping unauthorized parties away from her horses, who should I keep an eye out for?  What if somebody tries to sneak in?  How do I tell which persons are legitimate employees?"  It was an obvious question, with an obvious solution, but asking it would fit his character.

"It shouldn't be a problem," Edith said dismissively.  "This is a fairly small event compared to the Nationals, and we don't have any of our headliner broncos here with us.  Besides, fairground security usually does a pretty good job keeping unauthorized people out.  But if you're really worried, just ask to see their staff badges."  

"Will do."

"Good.  We'll be back soon."

It was interesting to note how much calmer Candii Ross's broncos were compared to earlier, even Girandola, the gelding he'd been forced to lunge into obedience earlier, Sherlock mused as he concentrated on the horses' body language once the women had left.  Whatever had been frightening the herd was gone.  The horses that weren't taking turns at the hay nets were calmly milling about the pen, their tails flicking back and forth as they brushed flies away.  There was an older mare who was keeping watch on the herd, but that was hardly unusual.  An unfamiliar human structure was no match for millions of years of evolution that had encoded a natural wariness of a new environment.

Sherlock bent down to pick up another section of fescue, but as he did so, he became aware of a prickling feeling between his shoulderblades.  The average individual would describe it as the ESP-like sensation of being watched.  He didn't believe in ESP, but studies had shown the human eye was finely tuned to register potential threats and alert the subconscious mind accordingly.  It was likely some sort of evolutionary holdover from the wilds where a direct stare heralded an attack or threat.  Regardless, he was logical enough to recognize the fact that his subconscious had signaled something being out of place and investigate it accordingly.      

He left the hay where it lay and turned to study his surroundings in more detail, paying close attention to the shadows.  Unfortunately, there were a great many places for an individual to hide.  The area underneath the VIP seating area was a warren of fences and corrals and jostling animals.  The few humans he could see were located some distance away and were obviously preoccupied with different tasks.  It was extremely unlikely one of them was the culprit.

A flicker of movement in the dim area under the regular bleachers drew Sherlock's attention.  He narrowed his eyes.  "I see you," Sherlock barked.  "What do you want?"

At Sherlock's demand, the man turned his head to one side and spat out a stream of tobacco juice.  The movement, posture, and costume gave him away: Fizzy Simpson, the rodeo clown.

"Afternoon," the man drawled, tipping his hat politely as he strolled out into the light, like there was nothing at all suspicious about being caught lurking.  "Didn't mean to startle you, I was just enjoying my break.  I don't think we've met, but I know I've seen you around.  You a new Triple C employee?"

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, his voice ending on an upward pitch, voicing his unspoken question.  He was careful to keep his expression puzzled, giving no evidence that he knew the man's identity.  Simpson obviously wanted something, but was leery of being noticed.  'Playing dumb' was a tried and true method for uncovering an individual's ulterior motives.

"Fizzy Simpson, professional rodeo clown," the man introduced himself.  He thrust his right hand out towards Sherlock.

"Billy Scott.  I'm Ms. Ross's new horse trainer," Sherlock lied, modulating his vocal timbre to sound slightly young and naive.  Smiling, he reached out to give Simpson's proffered hand a solid shake, his mind already noting the details.  The rodeo clown's palm and digits were heavily callused and the irregular shape of his grip indicated that at least three fingers had been previously broken.  The tips were heavily stained with nicotine, likely from heavy chewing tobacco use, given the colour of the man's teeth.      

Simpson looked Sherlock up and down, a calculating expression on his features.  The once-over was so fast that if Sherlock hadn't been actively watching for it, he never would have spotted it.  "So," he drawled, "if yer Ross's new trainer, I bet that means you're staying in my buddy Joe's old cabin?"

"I'm not, but why do you ask?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow winging upward.  There was too much artful casualness in Simpson's tone for the question to be purely small talk.  

Simpson shrugged.  "My buddy Joe borrowed a pair of my good gloves the night before he was killed and didn't return them.  I need 'em back.  I was wonderin' if I could stop by and get 'em from his camper?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said politely, shaking his head, "but you'd have to ask the boss about that.  As far as I know, all of Mr. Straker's things are locked up tight until his estate goes through probate."

"Even the stuff in his cabin?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Huh.  How long da ya think it'll take?  I need 'em back.  They cost me a pretty penny."

Sherlock shrugged.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know.  I've heard probates can take months.  The boss would know more than I would."  

"Damn.  I never shoulda lent them to that bastard," Simpson growled.  "Yeah.  I'll hit Ross up later," he added, punctuating his statement with another stream of tobacco juice, but making no effort to leave.  Instead, he reached into one of his voluminous trouser pockets and pulled out a half-empty fifth of Jim Beam whiskey.  Simpson unscrewed the cap and knocked back a sizable slug.  "Want some?" Simpson offered companionably, holding the bottle out to Sherlock.

"Er, no thank you," Sherlock declined, his nose wrinkling at the harsh odour of the spirits.  How the man could bear the stomach-churning combination of tobacco juice and rotgut whiskey was a question for the ages.   

"Suit yourself," Simpson huffed, taking another swig before recapping the bottle and returning it to its hiding place.  Crossing his arms, Simpson ran an experienced eye over the Triple C's horses.  "Speakin' of, Ross still got that one unrideable, killer stallion of hers?"

"Devil's Blaze?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"Yeah.  Him.  How's he doing?"

"Oh, better," Sherlock said vaguely.  "I have high hopes for him."

"Any chance of him competing again soon?"

"I really couldn't say.  I hope so.  I've been told he's a crowd favourite."  

"Yeah.  He is."  Simpson turned his head and spat again.  "What about the rest of Ross's horses?  Any of them promise to be especially good buckers?"

"I....don't understand," Sherlock lied, feigning naivety.

Simpson snorted his disgust.  "Come on.  Don't be stupid.  I'm talkin' about money.  Placing a bet or two's an easy way to make a hundred bucks.  You give me a tip.  I'll place the bet, we can split the fee.  Hell, I'll even give you fifty up front so you can see I'm an honest man."

Sherlock blinked.  He'd wondered what Simpson was seeking, but he hadn't expected the man to be quite so blatant.  "Sharing inside information about horses for gambling purposes?  Isn't that...illegal?" Sherlock asked doubtfully, biting his bottom lip, aware that Simpson was watching him closely.

"Naw," Simpson replied, punctuating his remark with another stream of tobacco juice.  "Not unless you place the bet yourself.  And only if you get caught.  Helping a friend out though...well, one good turn deserves another."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock huffed.  "I just have horses.  We just met.  I don't even know you."

"Hey Billy!  Where are you?  Alice and I are back with the wraps and the spare bucking straps," Edith's voice came, slightly echoey from the hallway.  "Did you finish the feeding?"

"I've gotta go," Simpson said abruptly, "but you think about my offer, pal.  It'll be an easy way to put something in your pocket and nobody will ever know but us."  Simpson winked and hurried off, his gait surprisingly steady for a man who should—by Sherlock's private calculations—be showing at least some indicators of alcohol impairment.

"Who were you talking to?" Edith asked as she and Alice rounded the corner.

"Fizzy Simpson."

"Shit.  I didn't even think to warn you about that brown-nosing bootlicker," Edith swore.  "I didn't think he'd be here.  Did he offer you money for tips, Billy?" Edith demanded abruptly, her tone accusatory.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked.

"Simpson.  Did he offer you money?"

"Yes?"

"Did you take it?"

"No," Sherlock replied, feigning indignation.  "I'm not a damned tout!"  

It wasn't strictly an accurate statement.  He'd cheerfully allowed himself to be bribed into releasing false information in pursuit of an investigation before.  There had been a particularly lucrative (and challenging) case he'd become embroiled in several years ago involving three grooms, two jockeys, an out-of-work, drug-addicted graduate chemist, secretions from the backs of South American Waxy Monkey Tree Frogs and several members of the local high-ranking families.  The frogs naturally secreted a substance that contained hundreds of beneficial bioactive compounds, including analgesics that provided pain relief.  The chemist had figured out a way to derive a hitherto-unknown analgesic from his pets' skin that also produced incredible energy and stamina when injected subcutaneously.  One of the chemist's more enterprising customers had realized the drug's potential and had introduced it to one of the family's horse trainers under the reasoning that a horse that couldn't feel pain would naturally run faster.  The theory had born fruit.  More importantly, the standard drug tests used at the time hadn't been capable of detecting the compound.  It had taken him several months' worth of work in his laboratory to identify the chemicals involved and develop a new testing methodology to detect them, but he'd done it.  

He'd also made several thousand pounds in untraceable cash, but Edith didn't need to know that.        

"Good," Edith said, with a firm nod.  "The boss would have fired your ass in a heartbeat if you had.  Ms. Ross's got no patience for two-timing snakes."   

"You...don't seem surprised," Sherlock observed with a raised eyebrow, privately amused by Edith's warning, considering he could just as easily lied about accepting the money and carried on as normal.

"I'm not," Edith said matter-of-factly.  "I know this is your first time coming with us on one of these runs, but in case you haven't already figured it out, Fizzy Simpson is a gambling-addicted asshole."  She jerked a thumb roughly, collectively indicating both Alice and herself.  "Over the years, that creep's tried to bribe several of us for inside information about our bucking strings.  Tryin' to hedge his bets and all that.  Not that it ever works.  Still, it doesn't keep him from tryin'.  We tried reporting him once or twice, but he’s too damn good at his job to get more than a slap on the wrist.  I guess he realized you were fresh meat and decided to give it yet another go."

Sherlock blinked in surprise.  Edith's description of Fitzroy Simpson was quite different from the paper's depiction of the 'heroic rodeo clown' that he'd read previously.

"Him?" Sherlock asked, feigning confusion.  "But...isn't he the same guy who saved that barrel racer after her horse attacked her?  I read about it in the papers," Sherlock added hurriedly, seeing Alice's look of confusion.  "The papers were hailing him as some sort of hero."

"Maybe?" Edith said skeptically.

"Hero my butt," Alice huffed sarcastically.  "If he did that, it was probably for the publicity.  He's the kind of jerk who thinks the word altruism means 'tax deductible'.  Fizzy's a good bullfighter, but I swear to God, half of his so-called 'heroic' rescues in the arena are because he wants something.  He'd probably bet on the bulls if he thought he could get away with it."

"I...think I read something about that in the PRCA guidelines about gambling being generally frowned on.  Is that why Mr. Straker only placed bets on bull rides?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to one side.  "Because there wasn't a conflict of interest since the Triple C doesn't supply bulls for events?"

"That too," Edith answered, shrugging one shoulder half-heartedly.  "Plus he had a knack for picking sleepers.  I asked him about it once.  He said that he used to herd cattle as a child back in South Africa.  Said it gave him a sixth sense about being able to tell when an animal was about to go rogue.  It sounded like a bunch of cacky to me, but I can't deny that he apparently won a lot of money.  Not that he ever seemed to spend it, unless it was on dates."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he was a tight-wad that'd wear his boots and jeans out until the Pope decided to canonize them."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, trying to parse Edith's meaning.  Oh.  It was a reference to an item being full of holes.  Stupid.  "Do you know why?"

"He'd talk from time to time about saving up to buy a ranch in Africa.  Not sure where he was going to get the couple million it'd probably cost though.  I told him once he should just invest in the lottery, it'd be about as successful."

"I see," Sherlock said dryly.  "Do you happen to know if Straker and Fizzy Simpson were friends?"

Alice snorted.  "Not likely.  Joe didn't really have friends unless they were of the 'girl' variety."   

 _Very interesting_.  Sherlock pursed his lips, feeling the familiar thrill of the chase.  Fizzy Simpson was lying.  The question was why?

~*~


	14. Dancin' and Kissin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More references to [dioscureantwins's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins) wonderful ['This is where I began'](http://archiveofourown.org/series/27831) series in this chapter. Seriously if you have not read it, you are missing out. It is an AMAZING piece of work. It is my headcanon for Sherlock's childhood. There are also Discworld references sprinkled throughout this chapter. Geek points if you spot them! 
> 
> I also want to do a quick shout-out of appreciation to you, my lovely readers. Your expletives, your squeeing, your long, thoughtful comments, your feedback, your subscriptions, your kudos, your encouragement and your support make it a pleasure to share ~~what was supposed to be a one-shot tongue-in-cheek AU that has become a novel length casefic~~ this story with you. Thank you!

~*~

"Take a shot, take a shot! Take a shot like a cowboy can! If you can't take a shot like a cowboy can, take the shot outta yer fuckin' hand!"

Sherlock closed his eyes in disgust as the table full of drunken Alpha Male idiots closest to him burst into whoops and cheers, the din punctuated by the sounds of shot glasses being slammed to the table top. It was the third time in the last hour he'd been subjected to the display and he wasn't sure whether or not he should be grateful that the noise was loud enough to drown out the bar's sound system.

Another burst of drunken laughter erupted and Sherlock just barely managed to hide his wince. He hadn't planned on joining the Triple C's staff at their post-rodeo mixer. He'd offered to stay behind with the Tredannick brothers and Molly, who had all sensibly declined the invitation in favor of staying and watching the horses while the rest of staff went drinking and dancing. Unbeknownst to him, however, Molly had taken the liberty of informing Alice and Edith that 'Billy' had never been to a rodeo before. Sherlock had to give her credit; if it had been a form of revenge, it was both deliberate and subtle. Alice and Edith had immediately ganged up on him, insisting that "a couple of beers and a night of fun is just what a hardworking, timid little jackrabbit like yourself needs!" and "all work and no play makes Billy a dull ride!" Before he'd managed to stammer out an excuse, he'd been manhandled—well, womanhandled—into the bed of the pickup truck to sit beside Cole Jonson and several other forgettable ranch hands for the trip to the bar. Admittedly, he could have easily broken free from Edith's and Alice's surprisingly strong grip, but doing so would have broken his character. It also would have raised some uncomfortable questions about why a shy horse trainer from Montana knew baritsu, judo or boxing.

He'd quizzed his fellow passengers during the drive over about the environment and clientele. His early years of riding on Mycroft's coattails had taught him that bars and clubs were popular venues for doing under-the-table or off-the-books business. The Antidiogenes Club in particular had probably heard more scandalous conversations, bent-over-the-table negotiations and cutthroat agreements in the last ninety-three years than the prime minister's cigar lounge at Chequers. There was a chance that he might manage to overhear something useful.

Unfortunately the first thirty seconds inside the bar had been enough to consign his hopes to the dustbin.

There were too many people and too many different conversations taking place to discern any useful gossip. The wooden floor and high ceilings of the barn-like space made everything echo, turning the audible conversations into a blurred cacophony of sound that was intelligible even to his highly-trained ears. Even worse, the overheated room, the multi-hued spotlights, the mingled odors of perfume and cologne and the pounding bass of the alleged 'music' were conspiring to give him a headache from the overwhelming sensory input. 

He'd grudgingly participated in the requisite 'bonding,' which included two rounds of obligatory shots, (the first to the Triple C's success and the second to him as "the new guy."). He also played three games of darts against Cole Johnson at the other man's insistence. Cole wasn't a terrible player, but he wasn't fantastic either. Certainly not on par with Mycroft by any stretch of the imagination. The only challenging part had been ensuring that his opponent had won the third round without giving the appearance of allowing him to win. He'd endured the conciliatory back-slaps before using his loss as an excuse to go to the bar and purchase a drink, trusting that if he took his time, Alice, Edith and the rest would get distracted and forget about him until the bar closed or the Triple C's employees were ready to leave (whichever happened first). So far, it appeared to have worked. He'd managed to secure a small table at the back of the room and had mostly been left alone to think.

As if on cue, yet another buxom blonde gave him a sultry look that communicated her interest in him as a prospective sexual partner. Sherlock ignored her and picked up his beer instead in the unspoken signal of a serious drinker with no desire for conversation. As intended, the blonde sniffed and turned away, visibly choosing to focus her attentions on a more receptive audience elsewhere.

_Good._

Sherlock glared down at the red Solo cup he was holding from under the brim of his cowboy hat, trying not to grimace at the bitter taste its contents had left behind in his mouth. He wasn't much for beer. He vastly preferred uppers to downers, (Mycroft's opinions on the matter notwithstanding), but he'd given away his last cigarette in an effort to build rapport with a stablehand earlier. Even if he hadn't, the madness that had prompted London's 2006 Health Act and the subsequent ban on indoor smoking had spread as far as the United States. There were several prominently-placed signs threatening all sorts of creative punishments for any individual caught lighting up inside the premises. When he _did_ drink, his tastes ran towards white wines, MacAbre whisky, Bentinck's Very Old Peculiar brandy and on extremely rare occasions Mrs Hudson's holiday scrumble, which was a punch made mostly with apple juice. 

Unfortunately for his tastebuds, the bar's offerings were limited to 'cheap and overpriced whisky,' 'very cheap and overpriced beer,' and 'not worth the money.' He wouldn't have even bothered to purchase the initial drink from the bar if it weren't for the fact that sitting by himself with nothing in his hands would draw undesirable attention, a counterintuitive practice when his entire objective was to blend in. Cool water would have been preferable since he was at least slightly dehydrated. It certainly would have been a more palatable selection, but no party-going cowboy worth his, her or their salt drank water. Even the designated drivers drank Coca-Cola or some other soft drink. 

Not that there seemed to be a notable difference in total alcoholic content, Sherlock thought with a disgusted eyeroll as he took another half-hearted gulp. The slogan on the sign above the bar promised to get buyers "Drunker than a Skunk!" but if the beverage in his cup was more than two percent alcohol, he'd eat his hat, or whatever the American saying was. He was on his third...no...fifth drink of the evening (not counting the two shots from earlier) and his thought processes were as sharp as ever. 

His colleague in Berlin, Klaus? Kristoff? Something that started with a 'K' would have scathingly referred to it as "der Säugling Bier" or "baby beer" for its inability to get even an infant intoxicated. Clearly somebody at the bar was padding their profits by diluting the keg with water. It certainly explained the terrible taste. Molly had been charitable when she'd described the beers sold to the rodeo crowd as being same shade and comparable odour of urine produced by a well-hydrated horse. It tasted worse than one of the cocktails he'd tried at Uni...fornification on the beach...or was it copulation on the beach? Irrelevant data. He should have deleted it a long time ago. 

In a way he'd almost welcome the muffling fog that a glass of fine whisky or wine would bring, Sherlock mused as he swirled his cup and stared intently at the swirls the bubbles made in the foam. The haze produced by alcohol would produce a much-desired buffer against the overwhelming sensory input of the room. At least the cold liquid felt somewhat refreshing in the overheated room. He took a final swig and set the empty cup aside, before allowing his features assume the vacuous smile of somebody enjoying the alleged music.

"You want another of the same, hun?" the short, zaftig brunette waitress asked him as she walked by, her hands full of empty plastic tumblers. 

"Hmmm?"

The waitress nodded at Sherlock's cup. "You're sittin' by yourself and you're running on empty," she explained patiently. "Do. You. Want. Another. Drink?"

"Oh! Yes, please," Sherlock replied, carefully enunciating his consonants to avoid lisping. He pulled out his wallet and passed over several bills, which the waitress promptly tucked into her ample cleavage. 

"I'll be right back with that for you, hun," she promised with a wink. 

"Thank you," Sherlock replied absently, his mind already turning inward to review what he'd learned over the past fifty-two hours.

At Ross's behest, he'd joined the Tredannick brothers on the arena floor—ostensibly to help manage the excited horses, but in reality to keep a sharp eye on the Triple C's stock as the broncos were cycled through the bucking chutes and what tack was being buckled on. 

There hadn't been a great deal of it, compared to what a dressage horse or racehorse might wear. Saddle broncos wore a bitless halter bridle and a modified saddle for competition, while bareback broncos were outfitted with a special rigging strap was essentially nothing more than a handle attached to a belt that was strapped around the horse's barrel. Both types of horses also wore a soft, sheepskin-lined flank strap during competition to encourage bucking. The presence of the flank strap was another bone of contention with the activists, who insisted that the straps were used to crush the horse's genitalia. Sherlock had rolled his eyes in disgust when he'd come across that argument on Kitty Riley's website. Clearly the woman needed an equine anatomy lesson. 

The simple tack and the way it was almost randomly applied to horses made sabotage unlikely, but keeping Candii Ross's orders in mind, he'd still examined everything for microneedle patches that could have been used to deliver drugs. He'd also managed to surreptitiously collect a few samples of the wool from several of the flank straps to test on the off chance they contained contact poisons, but since none of the horses had acted abnormally, it was almost certainly going to be a waste of time. He hadn't smelled anything unusual in the miasma of manure, sweat and dust surrounding the bucking chutes either, and the horses moved too quickly for somebody to inject them surreptitiously or feed them something. None of the horses had been injured (though the same could not be said for the cowboys attempting to ride them). Nor had Fizzy Simpson made a reappearance, instead, he'd kept to the bull riding events. 

Admittedly, there'd been one referee who hadn't managed to move out of the way fast enough and had been mowed down by a bucking bronco, but it couldn't—by any stretch of the imagination—be accurately described as an 'equine attack'. The only other potentially suspicious incident had occurred during the bull riding event following the saddle bronc competition. One of the pickup men's horses had spooked and tried to rear, but since the green-hatted clown standing next to the horse wasn't Fizzy Simpson, and the man had quickly gotten his horse back under control, Sherlock had dismissed it as the horse's perfectly logical reaction to being charged by an angry bovine. 

Really, the only interesting part of the entire event had been watching the bronco riders compete. He'd familiarized himself with the rules of the bronc riding at the beginning of his case but the words on his computer screen took an utterly different meaning when placed in context. He knew from his own experience that retaining one's seat on an uncooperative mount could be trying when one had the benefit of stirrups, a bit, reins and both hands, but the rules committee had apparently decided that that wasn't enough of a challenge. In addition to forbidding a rider to touch the horse or any part of their body with their 'free' hand, riders were required to 'mark out' by starting with both dulled spurs touching the horse above its shoulders and keeping them there until after the horse's front feet made contact with the dirt. It was a rule intended to give the horse the advantage in any ride. During the ride, the rider was expected to run his spurs up and down the horse's body, from the horse's shoulder, to the rigging handle, and back again, timing each motion with each jump the horse made as a demonstration that they were in control of the ride at all times. A competitor who failed to mark out properly, touched his own body, the horse, or any of the equipment with his free hand, or was successfully thrown during the ride was immediately disqualified.

Bronc riding wasn't nearly as elegant as dressage, as exciting as a steeplechase or as dangerous as eventing, but it was still a sport that took balance, courage, immense core strength, timing and a good bit of personal insanity to make it appear effortless. In short, all things that Sherlock could appreciate and he'd upgraded his opinions accordingly. 

During his break, he'd googled YouTube, hoping to find videos of John. He'd found several. Most of them were marked with appalling titles such as 'RIDE HIM COWBOY'—clearly the work of John Watson's numerous ex-girlfriends, or at least lustful individuals—but he could hardly blame them. Seeing the way John had successfully handled the frightened gelding at the fairground had given him just a glimpse of the vet's skill on horseback, but he hadn't fully appreciated John's abilities until he'd seen him in competition. 

John was all fluid grace and timing and compact strength as he rode, maintaining his seat with apparent effortlessness. Even when he did get thrown, John landed with the technique of somebody with at least basic martial-art schooling. He'd immediately rolled to his feet, obviously laughing, his boyish features ebullient with adrenaline and enthusiasm. Sherlock had been especially enamoured with the video of John riding a bucking black gelding with a white blaze for the requisite eight seconds before jumping off, landing on his feet and waving his hat to the cheers of the adoring crowd. 

He only wished that he'd been afforded the opportunity to watch John in action in person. 

Watching the competition live had also driven home how fine of a line competitors walked: riding a less energetic horse might enable them to stay mounted for the entire eight seconds, but the highest possible number of points was needed if a cowboy had any chance of making it to the National Finals Rodeo.

Candii Ross's claims that her horses were among the best available wasn't an idle boast. The bucking strings from various contactors were mixed together for competitions, but it was easy identify the Triple C's horses by their distinctive coloration and the speed with which they dispatched their riders. Some cowboys managed to stay on for the full eight seconds required to qualify, but the majority were thrown within the first four seconds. And—as Candii Ross had bragged—a rider who qualified riding on a Triple C bronco tended to receive scores that were two to three points higher on average than a rider that hadn't been on a Triple C bronco. 

Higher points were especially crucial, because points translated to prize money earnings and thereby higher standings on the circuit rankings. Competitors were ranked according to their winnings, with the top fifteen earners in each rodeo event were invited to compete for the big prizes at the National Finals Rodeo. He'd remembered from his earlier research that the NFR awarded prizes that could be in excess of two hundred thousand American dollars, but hadn't looked further than that. 

Consequently, he'd spent several hours the night before last researching individual standings and how they came to be, in his bunk by the light of his mobile. The rodeo's rise in commercial popularity had coincided with the reduction in the number of working cowboys. At the same time, the increasingly lucrative nature of competitions had also resulted in an influx of competitors who worked occupations other than that of 'cowhand,' occupations that didn't allow competitors the time to travel several hundred miles a week for competition. In deference to the changing nature of the sport, in 1975, the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association had introduced the concept of regional 'circuits' in 1975 by dividing their enormous country up into smaller segments. The objective being that competitors who worked 9-5 'banker's hours' could select a 'home' circuit to compete in, (thus lessening the amount of travel required) yet still be eligible for the bigger competitions. There were still some die-hard competitors who were willing (and able) to criss-cross the United States, but most preferred to stay within one of the twelve geographic regions.

He'd found a helpful website that archived the individual standings of different cowboys for the regions, down to fiftieth place, going back almost twenty years. John's name had appeared several times in the standings, though there was a gap of several years that likely coincided with his military deployment. It also raised some interesting questions about John's finances.

According to his research, John had earned almost twenty thousand pounds, or twenty-five thousand dollars from competitions the prior year. It wasn't quite enough to put him in the top fifteen earners for a NFR invitation, but it was still a sizable amount of money. The cash prize associated with John's All American Tour championship bronco buckle alone had been almost ten thousand pounds. If the man's sandwich choice at the café and the state of his boots were any indication, then John clearly wasn't spending his earnings on the high life, which begged the question of what _was_ John doing with his winnings and salary?

The waitress returned with his beer and change and Sherlock remembered to thank her as he accepted his cup. The information regarding Fizzy Simpson's reputation for gambling notwithstanding, the entire weekend thus far had proven to be a waste in terms of uncovering any new leads. Sherlock sighed and took another half-hearted sip of his drink, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He was missing something, something obvious, but what? He longed for the quiet of his cabin and the company of his violin, elements that would let him focus and actually _think_. Instead, his violin was over eight thousand twenty kilometers away on the other side of the pond and he was trapped in an overheated bar surrounded by idiots and utterly bored out of his skull...

A burst of distinctive giggling, audible even over the music had Sherlock straightening up, his ears perking up like Bonnie's when she'd heard a rabbit rustling in the brush. _John?_ Sherlock narrowed his eyes and began scanning the crowd more closely, looking for the giggle's owner. His mouth went bone dry when he finally spotted his target and he took a hasty gulp of beer to assuage it. 

John had shed the uniform of practical black polo, cowboy hat and somewhat faded and baggy blue jeans he'd been wearing all weekend. He'd exchanged them for a tight, dark blue tee-shirt that precisely matched the colour of his eyes and a pair of fitted black jeans. The tee-shirt did an even better job accentuating the muscles of his chest and biceps than the polo had, Sherlock thought dazedly, while the way the jeans cupped him just so and hugged the muscles of John's legs and hips left very little to the imagination. The dark fabric created a monochromatic colour scheme that drew attention to the polished gold and silver buckle John wore on his belt and the matching shades of gold and silver in his hair. John had also added a bit of product to his hair since Sherlock had last seen him. He'd swept his fringe back and slightly to one side. The changed style highlighted the breadth of his forehead, making his face appear longer and his eyes stand out as being absurdly blue. 

He resembled nothing so much as a lion on the prowl. 

John was obviously well known by the bar's customers. As Sherlock watched, a leggy brunette woman with cinnamon-coloured skin, wearing _extremely_ short denim cutoffs and a plaid shirt tied up just underneath her ample breasts reached out and gave John's arse a mischievous smack. Rather than be offended, John tilted his head back and laughed and then returned the favour. The brunette squealed and leaned forward, whispering something in John's ear, her long, curly hair just brushing John's chest. John shook his head and mimed drinking something, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bar. The brunette's shoulders slumped in obvious disappointment but another comment from John had her grinning. She gave him a playful kiss on the cheek and then turned away, hips swaying to the beat of the music while John watched with an appreciative smirk stamped on his handsome features.

Sherlock sniffed and took another sip of his drink, before setting it aside to glare down at the table top. _If John wanted to waste time on...on..._ Sherlock struggled for a moment to think of an accurate description, before settling on a term he'd Mrs. Hudson use to describe some of her late husband's 'secretaries'. If John wanted to waste his time on some _floozy,_ that was his prerogative. Still frowning, Sherlock began angrily tapping out his favorite parts from Bartok's _Violin Concerto No. 2_. The sharp, minor arpeggios, punctuated with dissonant runs suited his irritable mood perfectly. _It was a pity he didn't actually have an instrument with him,_ Sherlock thought petulantly. He would have enjoyed observing the effects of his screeching bow on the table of drunken idiots next to him. It was the least he could do, considering they'd been assaulting his eardrums with increasingly vulgar chants for the past two hours.

He was deep in the middle of a violent violin rendition of Stravinsky's _'Rite of Spring'_ when he became aware of his audience. Startled, Sherlock looked up to see John standing in front of him, one hip cocked and an easy smile on his face. 

"Well hello, hello, hello," John drawled, raising the plastic tumbler filled with some sort of golden-coloured liquor he was cradling in his left hand to salute Sherlock. "I thought I spotted your fine ass over here, Billy. Got room for one more?" John asked, with all the subtlety of a gold digger at one of Liverpool's more exclusive clubs. Without waiting for Sherlock's response, John grabbed an unoccupied chair from a nearby table and spun it around one-handed before straddling it. It was a neat display of masculine grace that unashamedly drew attention to John's crotch and well-muscled thighs. Once seated, John folded his forearms on the chair's back, the motion making the corded muscles in his forearms bunch and ripple, all without spilling a drop of his drink.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to jolt his mind back into gear. How John had spotted him across the crowded space? And why was it suddenly so difficult to think? Sherlock swallowed hard. He felt slightly dizzy, almost lightheaded. Perhaps he shouldn't have drunk those four...was it four? beers...in the past two hours after all. Worse than the mental fuzziness was the tingling in his groin. It was an annoying sensation that heralded the return of his normally dormant libido. 

Again. 

_Oh for God's sake,_ Sherlock swore mentally as the tingling in his penis increased and his burgeoning erection began to strain uncomfortably against his fly. He hurriedly crossed his legs. With any luck, the dim lighting would disguise both the bulge in his jeans and his incriminating flush. The cottony feeling in his mouth was making it difficult for him to respond so he took a quick sip of his beer to sooth his throat. What was it about John that prompted thoughts of sex? Sherlock shook his head, as if the quick, jerky motion would restart his mind. _The Work._ He needed to concentrate on the Work.

Not on John Watson's...considerable assets.

"John," Sherlock managed to croak, before grimacing in annoyance. _Not good._ He pushed the brim of his hat up so he could better see John's face, took another hasty gulp of his beer and tried again. "John! Sorry...I...wasn't expecting to see you here," Sherlock stammered. "I would have thought you would still be at work. Why are you here?" He could make an educated guess, based on John's raiment, but that didn't explain why John had deliberately sought Sherlock out in a room full of scantily-clad women.

"My shift ended a couple of hours ago. I felt like relaxing with a drink, plus 'Ride 'Em!' is the best place to pick up a quick hookup in Shiprock," John explained cheerfully, confirming Sherlock's deduction. With a cocky smirk, John leaned forward into Sherlock's personal space, the scent of his aftershave and sweat flooding Sherlock's senses. "And since tomorrow's Monday, and I took the day off, I can sleep in if I want," he added smugly. "What about you? What brings you to this neck of the woods? I wouldn't have thought you were one much for bars."John commented, cocking an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side in a way that somehow managed to be both endearing and sexy. 

"I'm not," Sherlock admitted, poking half-heartedly at one of the many condensation rings on the table's wooden surface. When he did go out, he prefered quiet, hole-in-the-wall restaurants. Places where the food was excellent, the crowds were minimal and the staff could be counted on to serve his meal but otherwise leave him in peace. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell John any of that. 

"So why?" John pressed.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "Most of the Triple C's employees decided to come here to party before we head back to the ranch tomorrow morning." Sherlock held up his mostly-empty cup of pseudo-beer by way of example. "I was invited and it would have been rude to decline." True. Albeit his attendance had been under duress.

"Makes sense," John replied, his expression faintly puzzled, "but that being the case, what are you doing here, sitting all by your lonesome? Where is everybody else then?"

Sherlock shrugged again and tipped his head vaguely in the direction he'd last seen the Triple C's crew. "Over there somewhere. No doubt drinking, playing with darts and flirting with floozies."

"Floozies?" John choked.

"It means young women with questionable morale—I mean morals," Sherlock explained haughtily.

"I know that," John chuckled, shaking his head. "I'd just never heard somebody our age use it in casual conversation. It sounds like something my grandma would have said, or maybe something from an old book. You really do have an amazing vocabulary," John added. He tilted his head to one side as he studied Sherlock, his eyes sparkling with mirth. As Sherlock watched, John's tongue came out to swipe along his lower lip, leaving a faint, shiny film of moisture behind. 

"Now what?" Sherlock snapped, slightly discomfited.

"I just realised...you've...got a bit of a lisp. It's cute."

"Stop," Sherlock huffed, dropping his chin and attempting to glare. 

"No really, it is," John insisted as he leaned in, heedless of the danger. "Say 'penguins' for me."

Sherlock blinked in surprise, his mouth falling open indignation. "I most certainly will not," he huffed. "And for your information, I do not have a lisp," Sherlock added haughtily, taking care to enunciate his words, lest he accidently undermine his own argument.

"Yeah, you do," John retorted, licking his lips and winking. "I bet you used it in school to get out of homework. I certainly would have," he added, taking another sip of his drink. "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone."

Sherlock sneered and looked down at the table. John's tone made it clear that he was teasing, with no intent to harm, but it was a particularly sore spot he'd chosen. Despite what John claimed, there was nothing 'cute' about a habit that had been the bane of his existence growing up and still plagued him when he was exhausted. Sherlock took another gulp of his beer as he tried to think of a suitably scathing retort, but nothing came to mind. Instead, he found himself distracted by watching John and cataloging the myriad details he could read on John's frame while the other man sat sipping his drink and studying the room, oblivious to Sherlock's scrutiny.

Sherlock could easily read the lines of exhaustion creasing John's face through the screen of his lashes. John was likely experiencing some muscle soreness in his shoulders and upper back if his seated posture was any indicator. Sherlock knew from experience how physically demanding the act of riding or wrangling horses could be. His own arms and thighs ached from the hauling and lifting he'd done over the past few days. He spent a wistful moment thinking of 221b and Mrs. Hudson. His fussy landlady-not-your-housekeeper was occasionally a godsend. Her herbal soothers were certainly a better muscle relaxant than anything on the legal market.

But rather than looking discouraged, or angry at the pain, John looked satisfied. Clearly hard, physical labor agreed with him. Sherlock took what he hoped was a suitably discreet sniff. John smelled slightly of wood smoke and a bit like sun-warmed cotton. Did he hang his clothes out to dry in the sun, the way his family's maids did? Or was it something else? Like one of those terrible artificial fabric softener sheets Mrs. Hudson was so fond of using on her own laundry? John had also spritzed on some sort of mass-produced cologne. It wasn't terrible. The slightly sharp, spicy smell at least complemented John's natural odour. Underneath it all, Sherlock could detect a faint trace of clove oil and menthol that John had probably used earlier.

"Speaking of the ladies, where's your girlfriend?" John eventually asked, swirling his drink with an air of studied casualness. "I thought she'd be back by now."

"My...who?" Sherlock asked inanely, distracted from his analysis of John's right hand. The vet had broken his pinky at some point and it hadn't quite healed properly, giving the digit an interesting bend near the base. 

"Molly Hooper," John explained, giving Sherlock a puzzled look. 

"I'm aware that you're something of a ladies' man, John," Sherlock said sharply—perhaps more sharply than he intended—"but as I've mentioned previously, women really aren't my area. Yes, Molly was showing me around the rodeo, and yes, we've shared several meals, but let me make it perfectly clear: I have absolutely zero romantic interest in Molly Hooper." Beyond the necessity of feigning attraction to her for the sake of the Work, of course, but John didn't need to know that. 

Instead of being put off by Sherlock's harsh tone, a wide, almost predatory smile took over John's face. "So..." John said, tucking his chin in so he could fix his gaze intently on Sherlock's. "Just to be clear, the two of you aren't dating?"

"No."

"And you're here alone?"

"Nominally yes?"

"Good," John announced, his voice rife with satisfaction.

"Good? Why good?" Sherlock demanded defensively, feeling a sudden swell of anger surge up. He was in no mood to have his isolation thrown back in his face. It wasn't even aimed specifically at John. Sebastian Wilkes and his cronies had made no secret that he deserved to be alone and friendless, but somehow John's casual acknowledgement that Sherlock's lack of companionship was a good thing stung more than anything his so-called peers had said. He took another gulp of his beer to keep the bitter words from pouring forth. 

"Because that means I get to have you all to myself," John answered, licking his lips and punctuating his comment with a lascivious eyebrow wiggle. 

Sherlock froze, blinking rapidly as he processed John's statement. Did John mean for that to come out the way it had sounded? Admittedly, he'd noticed John's unmistakable signals of sexual attraction and jealousy; he would have to be blind not to observe them...but he'd also observed that John flirted with—or at—every female in his proximity. John had walked by dozens of conventionally—and not so conventionally—attractive women on his way to Sherlock's table. Their sybaritic gazes had made no secret of their appreciation for John's denim-clad derriere as they watched him saunter past. Was Mycroft right? Was John's statement a ploy, like his mental copy of his brother suggested? Was Sherlock allowing sentimental and sexual desire to cloud his judgement? Or was John's interest genuine? Was he even capable of making that determination? He'd told Molly that he and John were friends...but he'd once made the mistake of believing that Sebastian Wilkes's offer of friendship had been sincere. He'd learned the hard way that the other man's sole motivation had been cribbing off of Sherlock's papers during Uni and (unsuccessfully) passing them off as his own. And that didn't even begin to touch on the Waterloo of his failed relationship with Victor.

Tilting his head, Sherlock refocused his gaze and began to study John's expression in earnest, looking for some indicator that John was mocking him, or perhaps playing him for a fool. He couldn't find any. John's expression remained encouraging, his eyes warm, as if he had nothing better to do with his time than spending it gazing at Sherlock as though Sherlock were something utterly remarkable, like a Lipizzaner stallion performing a perfect capriole or courbette.

Best to be certain.

"So...in fact, you-you mean...?" Sherlock began hesitantly, his eyelashes fluttering as he tried to formulate his question through the haze of alcohol. 

"Yes?" John asked. 

"You're saying...?"

John gave him an encouraging nod. 

"You're attracted...?"

"To you," John confirmed. "You seem surprised," he observed, tilting his head to one side. "Why?"

"I..." Sherlock fell silent and looked down at the table top. His left-hand fingers began tapping out Tchaikovsky's _Valse Sentimentale_ as he tried to put his jumbled thoughts into words. "I...never expected to attract the attention of somebody as perfect as you. I'm not even sure it's real and not faked," he mumbled. _Damn_. That was far more honest than he meant to be. To his shock, John burst into giggles, almost spilling his drink. 

"Good one, Billy. You almost had me going there for a second. I call bullshit," John chuckled. His laughter continued, eventually trailing off when Sherlock failed to join in. "Jesus, you weren't kidding, were you?" John breathed, his eyes wide and horrified as he stared at Sherlock's expression. 

Sherlock shook his head mutely, too shocked and hurt to immediately reply. The idea of John, blond, fit, intelligent _John_ laughing in his face made bile rise in his throat: a sharp, bitter taste coating the back of his tongue and teeth. Ruthlessly Sherlock forced the tears and nausea down. Bedford had been rife with bullies eager to exploit any appearance of weakness. Anger was better. Safer. "Why would I be?" Sherlock hissed, glaring at John as he went on attack, the alcohol lowering his inhibitions. "Who would want to bed a horse-whispering freak like me? You needn't rub my shortcomings in my face, like a dog who hasn't learned where it and isn't appropriate to defecate—"

"Christ, Billy. I am so, so sorry," John stammered, his expression appalled. "I just thought...I mean, I know you'd mentioned you'd had a rough time getting picked on when you were growing up, but since you're so...I didn't think that...because you're—"

"Because I'm what?" Sherlock seethed, his fingers tightening on the thin plastic of the cup, threatening to crush it. The alcohol he'd consumed was doing a splendid job of further loosening his already-tenuous grip on his self control. "A freak?" Sherlock continued. "Or a psychopath? Perhaps an entitled rich brat with a silver spoon stuck up his arse? Or maybe you'd prefer 'manipulative, backstabbing heartless bastard'?"

"No," John replied, shaking his head emphatically and holding up his hands in surrender. "No, no, that is not what I meant. At all. Calm down, alright? I thought you were joking, because you're, well..." 

"I'm what?" Sherlock snarled, not mollified in the least. 

"Fucking gorgeous, Billy," John said simply, his voice soft. He waved an expansive hand, indicating Sherlock's lanky form.

Sherlock snorted and took another gulp of his beer. "Don't mock me, John."

"I'm not," the blond man replied. His voice carried a husky undertone that made Sherlock swallow in spite of himself. Shivers reflexively ran down his spine at the intent look in John's eyes. "I'm really, really not."

"You actually think I'm foolish enough to fall for that?" Sherlock asked scathingly, forcing himself to focus on the facts. 

"What? Billy?" John asked, his forehead furrowing in concern. "I don't understand. What are you getting at?"

"You fancy women, John. You flirt with them constantly," Sherlock snapped accusingly, hoping to put John on the defensive. "The ones you don't flirt with, you leer at. Don't try to deny it; I've watched you. In light of that unassailable piece of evidence, why are you wasting time on a socially inept man like myself when there're literally dozens of women out there bragging about your sexual prowess who would be more than happy to welcome Three Circuits Watson back to their beds?"

John blinked several times, clearly startled by Sherlock's accusation. He was silent for several long moments, studying his plastic cup as if it contained the mythological waters of Mímir. Finally, John heaved a sigh and scrubbed both hands over his face, before sitting up to meet Sherlock's angry gaze with his own patient one. "Look," John began, ducking his chin. "Let's start over, because I've clearly fucked this up. I like women. I also like sex," John added. His tone was blunt, with no trace of embarrassment. "I like looking too. I'm not going to deny it and I'm not ashamed of it. But I don't screw around either. If I'm in a relationship with a person, it's with them until one or the other of us ends it." John licked his lips and cleared his throat nervously. "It's easier dating women—especially in Texas—but I'm...shall we say, flexible, given the proper person." John's lips quirked briefly in what was likely a fond remembrance of somebody before he refocused his attention on Sherlock. "I have _never_ met _anybody_ before that's as...fascinating as you are."

"Fascinating?" Sherlock repeated skeptically, taking another gulp of his beer. That had not been the word he'd commonly heard used to describe him.

"Amazing. Fantastic. Genius. Incredible, brilliant, take your pick," John said, leaning forward and resting his folded arms on the table. "I've been to _veterinary school_ , Billy, and I still think you're smarter than me. You start talking about something, and I can just see your brain going at warp speed. Your voice changes a bit when you get distracted—it goes a bit British. I can almost imagine you spending hours reading books like 'The Secret Garden' and pretending you're Dickon the animal charmer, or Albert and his war horse, Joey. I've seen you working with Blaze—it's unbelievable, what you're able to do with him. Nobody else could be that clever. And then there's all these little tidbits you let slip about your family and your home. It makes me incredibly curious, because you're a puzzle and a walking contradiction, and by _God _do I want to be the one to solve you."__

"Oh." Sherlock said in a small voice. That was...not at all what he'd expected John to say. 

"Now if I've read this wrong and you're not...interested, that's fine," John said hurriedly, raising his chin slightly. "I like you, but if I'm making you uncomfortable, I'll lay off on the flirting—I know I can come on like a steamroller. I would like to at least be friends, though, if you're interested, that is. I wasn't kidding when I said you're amazing. Whatever you want, though, Billy, it's fine. It's all fine."

"I..." Sherlock fell silent, trying to decide how to formulate his response. He _needed_ to get closer to John, if only to prove John's innocence. " _Or guilt,_ " his inner Mycroft whispered. Taking John up on his offer would be the easiest way to accomplish that...but could he remain objective in the face of his suddenly-active libido and John's undeniable charms? If John were guilty, would he have the wherewithal to turn him in?

He'd once informed Irene that she'd never be an Olympian because she persisted in maintaining personal relationships and sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. Irene had sneered and retorted that if anybody was suffering from a surfeit of sentiment, it was him.

"Me?!" he had huffed indignantly, pulling himself up haughtily.

"Yes you. You're not nearly as cold or as harsh as you like to pretend you are," Irene had announced, letting her riding crop trail over Sherlock's cheekbones before rapping him lightly in the chest with the tip. "Make no mistake, you're a selfish, miserable bastard with an ego worthy of a Siamese cat...but you love horses. You care about them. You care about them so...much," Irene had commented as she walked around him in a circle, the click of her riding boots' heels against the barn's slate tiles punctuating her remarks. "Of the two of us, _you_ are the one willing to overlook payment to help an animal in need, whereas _I_ am a complete mercenary and only provide my services to those that can afford me. You think sentiment is a chemical weakness found on the losing side? Dear God, you poor man!" Irene had laughed, shaking her head with a combination of mockery and pity. "You are going to be an absolute _mess_ if you ever fall in love with an actual human being. He'll have you wrapped around his finger so fast you'll think you were in a round baler!"

Sherlock had rolled his eyes in disgust at her insinuations. Irene liked to exaggerate and took great pleasure in her ability needle him. Conversation with her was an ongoing verbal fencing match with none of Mycroft's dry affection to lessen the barbs that landed. But what if Irene was right? Was it possible he was allowing a surplus of dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin to impede his judgement?

 _No,_ Sherlock decided firmly. He was in control. He could easily overlook his attraction to John while he focused on the Work. 

And damn the alcohol for making him doubt himself. 

"Billy?" John asked hesitantly. "Are you in there? You've gone quiet. It's a bit...scary, to be honest."

"Sorry..." Sherlock said, shaking his head to reorganized his thoughts. "I was just...thinking." 

"What about?" 

"You. What you said. I've...never done this before," Sherlock lied. 

"Yeah...I kind of figured as much," John replied gently, his expression rueful. "You're spookier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs." 

"I'm _what?!_ " Sherlock demanded, distracted from his plotting by the unexpected non sequitur. 

"It's a figure of speech." 

"I deduced that much," Sherlock huffed. "It just makes no sense!" 

"Clearly you aren't a cat person," John said wryly. "Else you'd know exactly what I'm describing." 

"No," Sherlock admitted. "My family always kept dogs as pets." 

"Really? That surprises me." 

"Why?" 

"Most ranchers tend to keep at least a few barn cats around to cut down on the mice," John explained with a shrug. "That's what my grandparents did, at least. Grandma liked to name them after different types of alcohol. It got me into trouble at school once when I wrote an essay about how much I loved Moonshine and Tequila." 

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, well, Mum—my mother hates cats," he replied, feeling oddly charmed by the tidbit about John's childhood. "She couldn't stand to have them around." An understatement. His mother had thrown a hysterical fit when she'd seen the kitten that six-year-old Sherlock had smuggled home from a neighboring farm and hidden inside his bedroom closet. She'd had ordered it to be taken away, despite Sherlock's tears and protests, and he'd never seen it again. 

"Aww shame," John remarked, apparently oblivious to the darker bent Sherlock's thoughts had taken. "Some of my fondest memories growing up are taking naps in the hayloft with a half-dozen cats curled up around me." 

"That...sounds pleasant." 

"It was," John grinned. "Bit itchy, but fun." John ducked his chin and bit his bottom lip, eyeing Sherlock through his lashes. "What I mean to say is I...get that you're nervous. Just...let me know what you'd like to do." 

"Can we..." Sherlock began, then paused. 

"Can we what?" John asked encouragingly. 

"I'd...like to try," Sherlock replied haltingly, his hesitation only half-feigned. "But...can we go slow?" 

John smiled broadly, the expression mapping new lines of pleasure over the fascinating topography of his face. "Of course," John agreed, nodding emphatically. "Of course we can take it slow. As much or as little as you want." 

"Thank you." Sherlock stared down at his empty cup, frantically trying to think of a conversational topic that John would find interesting so he could attempt to woo the man. Coccidioidomycosis? Histoplasmosis? Equine Protozoal Myeloencephalitis? 

Fortunately, a waitress chose that moment to walk by.

"You want another?" 

"Please," Sherlock answered, seizing the distraction. "Keep the change," he ordered, passing over a folded bill. 

"How 'bout you, sir?" 

"I'm good," John replied with an easy smile. He held up his half-full cup by way of example. 

"I'll be back in a few with your refill," the waitress promised before hurrying off. 

"So what are you drinking?" John asked when the waitress returned deposited Sherlock's refill on the table. 

"Winkles Old Peculiar." 

"Huh. Never heard of it before," John remarked. He reached over, picked up Sherlock's cup, and took a curious sniff of the contents, one eyebrow rising skeptically. "How is it?" 

"A bit jumentous for my tastes, but otherwise surprisingly okay," Sherlock replied with a shrug. It was true. He still didn't much care for American beer, but the taste had become notably more palatable as the evening wore on. "Feel free to try some," Sherlock added, vaguely recalling something Molly said about sharing drinks being romantic when she'd taken him out for coffee. 

"Jumentous?" John asked curiously as he raised the cup to his lips. "Is that some sort of fancy wine connoisseur term you learned for oak-aged or acetic?" 

"No...it means to smell like horse urine," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly just as John took a mouthful. 

John's eyebrows rose and he immediately started coughing, spraying Sherlock with the contents of his mouth. The violent motion caused him to drop the cup and a flood of liquid coursed across the table and straight into Sherlock's lap. 

"John!" Sherlock yelped as he flinched back. The sudden dampness permeating his jeans was uncomfortable, but he was more alarmed by the redness of the other man's face and the violence of John's coughing. He shot to his feet, staggering slightly as he moved around to stand beside John. One hand hovered uselessly over John's back as he frantically tried to recall the aid procedures for a choking individual. Pat them on the back? Perform the Heimlich manoeuvre? Offer them a drink of water (which would be redundant practice, since consumption of a beverage was what had caused the problem in the first place)? What was he supposed to do? "John? What should I do? John?!" The commotion drew the attention of several nearby patrons. Sherlock could feel the weight of their curious gazes, but none of them offered aid. It was a textbook example of the 'bystander effect' or 'bystander apathy. _Idiots,_ Sherlock thought scathingly as he began to thump John on the back in an effort to help. 

"Ow, Billy! Jesus, not so hard! I'm fine, Billy. Really...I'm fine," John wheezed, waving him off, sounding anything but convincing. "You just caught me by surprise." He coughed again and took a hasty sip of his bourbon. "Jesus! Jumentous?! Where in God's name did you learn a word like that?" 

"From one of my equine training history manuals," Sherlock explained in a small voice as John finally got his coughing under control. He could feel the cold beer trickling down his face and dampening his shirt, making the cotton cling unpleasantly to his skin the way the soaked patch over his fly already clung. It was utterly mortifying. 

John finally managed to stop coughing and began wiping at his streaming eyes with a bandana he'd apparently kept in his pocket. "Ugh. Let's not do that again," John muttered with a sniff. Still blinking, he looked up to where Sherlock was still hovering beside him indecisively. John's eyes widened comically as he took in Sherlock's beer-drenched form. "Oh, Christ, Billy, I'm sorry," John apologized, his face crumpling in dismay. "Here," John said, grabbing a handful of napkins out of the dispenser and shoving them towards Sherlock. 

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled, accepting the napkins and beginning to blot his face dry. They were cheap paper that quickly fell apart and there was hardly any absorbency to speak of. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the rasp of rough paper. The only upside to the entire situation was that the unexpected beer bath had done much to quell his burgeoning erection. 

"I'm really sorry about that," John repeated, handing Sherlock another stack of napkins in exchange for the soiled batch. "This is humiliating. I'm usually much smoother at this." John's face was a brilliant scarlet underneath his golden tan. "Can I—" 

"It's fine," Sherlock snapped, not wanting to be reminded of John Watson's previous conquests. He finished drying his face and used the remaining napkins to blot up some of the beer that had spilled. 

Their waitress hurried up, a damp towel in hand. "Everything okay here?" 

"Yeah, the beer just went down the wrong tube, and then I spilled my friend's drink when I started coughing. Sorry about the mess." 

The waitress snorted. "My daddy'd tell you you're supposed to breathe the air and drink the beer, not the other way around. You alright now? Ya'll need some water?" 

"I'm fine, and yes, please," John said, giving her a smile that was more wan than flirtatious. 

"No problem. Just give me a sec and I'll get this cleaned up." 

"Thanks. That'd be great," John replied, but he was looking at Sherlock when he answered. 

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock repeated, filling a small bit of warmth return at John's casual use of the word 'friend' and his attention. 

The waitress looked Sherlock over with a critical eye and pursed her lips. "There's a men's down the hall by the bar if you want to clean yourself up?" 

"Please," Sherlock agreed fervently. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the evening reeking of sour yeast. He also knew from unpleasant past experience how fast wet pants could chafe sensitive skin. "I'll be back," Sherlock announced vaguely before hurrying off in the direction the waitress had indicated. 

The one-stall men's loo was small, but gratifyingly clean. With a grateful sigh, Sherlock locked the room behind him enjoying the way the ambient noise dropped appreciably. He relieved himself and washed his hands before stripping off his soaked pants and depositing them in bin, where they landed with a sodden 'splat'. The door rattled. "Piss off!" Sherlock shouted, ignoring the angry retort as he turned his attention to his jeans. It was bad enough to have been doused in beer without looking like he suffered from urinary incontinence as well, Sherlock mused as he stared down at his groin. At least dark denim was more forgiving than bespoke wool trousers in the face of an unexpected alcohol bath, Sherlock decided after studying the drape of the fabric and the slight variations of colour. He grabbed a handful of paper towels and stuffed them down his fly to absorb the worst of the wet, while he sluiced warm water over his face and neck to rinse away the sticky beer residue still clinging to his skin. 

Ablutions complete, Sherlock straightened up and studied his reflection critically in the large mirror above the sink. If he was going to effectively seduce John Watson, he couldn't afford to look slovenly. He spent several long minutes fiddling with his hair, fluffing his fringe and trying to contain the worst of the flyways with water. He spent several more smoothing his shirt down to minimize the creases and carefully re-rolling the cuffs of his sleeves. After a few moments of private deliberation, Sherlock carefully repositioned his hat, tilting the brim down slightly. It was sexier that way. When he was satisfied that his appearance would pass muster, Sherlock turned and exited the loo, taking extra care with where he placed his feet to avoid staggering. 

From his vantage point in the hallway, he could see John sitting at their table. The vet was staring down at the table and toying nervously with his empty cup. The dejected expression stamped on his features was visible even under the brim of his cowboy hat. _Guilt?_ Sherlock wondered. _Regret? Boredom? Concern about a client?_ Giving it up as a mystery that idle speculation alone would not solve, Sherlock continued forward. "John? Are you alright?" 

At the sound of his name, John turned, his previously-doleful look melting away to a blinding smile. "Billy! You came back! I wasn't sure you would." John stood up and politely pulled Sherlock's chair back out. It was a surprisingly old-fashioned and upper-class gesture. It wouldn't have looked out-of-place among Mycroft's set, but it seemed odd that John would do it so naturally. 

Sherlock shook his head to banish thoughts of Mycroft from his mind. "Why did you suspect that?" Sherlock asked instead, articulating his question carefully to avoid slurring as he resumed his seat. "I said I would." 

"Yeah, but...that was almost thirty minutes ago." 

"And?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to one side and inviting John to continue. 

John rubbed one hand against the back of his neck and grimaced, his expressive eyebrows amplifying the look. "Just...well...Most people wouldn't bother coming back, not after having been accidentally spat on or having a cold drink dumped in their lap. I've had dates end abruptly for less." 

Sherlock shrugged one elegant shoulder. "Mmm...I am hardly 'people' John," Sherlock pointed out, waving one hand dismissively. "As you yourself said those were all accidents. I shan't hold them against you, but please restrain yourself in the future. I don't fancy smelling like a brewery any more than I already do." 

"No. I mean yes. I mean of course I'll be more careful, " John agreed eagerly, resuming his seat. "Speaking of...um...would you like me to buy you a drink since I spilled the other one?" 

"If you like." 

"Okay. Great. Er...do you want another of the same or do you fancy something else?"

"I don't mind. You decide," Sherlock replied. Mycroft had been the one to teach him the value of letting the person paying for a meal or a drink make the suggestion. _"You can quickly assess the state of their pocketbook, brother mine, and you can also made an estimation of their overall goal. Are they seeking to impress you? Bribe you? Incapacitate you? Or perhaps it is a combination of all three."_

John pursed his lips and hummed. "Sure...um...are you a sweet, sour or savory sort?" 

"Sweet," Sherlock answered immediately. 

"Then why in the hell were you drinking Winkles Old Peculiar?" John demanded, giving Sherlock a puzzled look. 

"It was cold. And I was thirsty." 

"Oooookay," John said, his skepticism evident. "In that case...what favors to you like? Licorice? Orange? Ummm...Amaretto? Peach?" 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Ummm...nope. What were you drinking earlier?" 

"Evan Williams Honey Liqueur." 

"I'll have that, then." 

"Right. Two honey liqueurs coming right up. I'll be right back," John added unnecessarily as he pushed himself to his feet and headed towards the bar to place their order, skillfully weaving his way through the crowd like a heat-seeking missile that had locked onto its target. 

Sherlock waited, idly tapping out the fingering for Mozart's _Concerto No. 5 in A Major_. It was a vibrant, uplifting piece and it was hard to keep from smiling whenever he heard it. 

"Here we are," John announced, walking— _no, swaggering,_ Sherlock privately amended—back to their table, their drinks in hand. John handed Sherlock one of the two plastic tumblers before resuming his seat. "To new friendships," John declared, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock's as he ceremoniously clicked the plastic rim of his cup against Sherlock's. 

"To new friendships," Sherlock echoed the toast and took a tentative sip. His eyes widened in surprise as the flavour of the liqueur exploded across his tongue: sweet honey, a hint of spice, the liquid warmth of high-proof alcohol. It was delicious, perhaps even better than Mrs. Hudson's private stash of Glenfiddich. 

"Good, huh?" John asked, a fond expression on his face as he sipped his own drink. One of his knees bumped Sherlock's companionably under the cover of the table. 

"Mmmm...very," Sherlock replied, taking another, longer, sip. He rolled the mouthful of bourbon around trying to deduce the memories invoked. Sherlock swallowed. "It tastes like Christmas," he announced. 

"Christmas?" John asked, tilting his head to one side. 

"Or maybe summer. I'm not sure which," Sherlock continued, taking another sip and narrowing his eyes in thought. He looked up from the rim to see John watching him with a puzzled expression. "The consumption of certain foodstuffs or scents had the ability to trigger vivid memories," Sherlock explained. "It's called the 'Proust Effect,' or the 'Proustian Experience' after the author, Marcel Proust, who was the first person to describe it in one of his novels. When I was a young child, we had a gardener who kept bees and the blacksmith who shod my family's horses brewed mead for the holidays. Occasionally, if I was very, very good—or very, very sneaky—I could steal a taste of either the raw honey or the finished product. Sometimes both." 

John started laughing and shaking his head. "I can imagine that! You were probably a holy terror as a child, weren't you?" John asked, refocusing his attention on Sherlock, a grin stretching across his face. 

"My older brother certainly seemed to think so...still does, come to think of it," Sherlock admitted with a disgusted sniff. "He worries about me constantly. It's infuriating." 

"Oh I don't know. I think it's kind of a universal thing for older siblings to be a bit protective of their younger siblings," John replied with a shrug as he swirled his drink around in a slow circle. 

"There's a difference between being protective and smothering," Sherlock retorted, taking another sip of his bourbon. "I think he must have had 'watch out for your baby brother' tattooed on his arse at some point. I've only been arrested a—" Sherlock paused and stared at the ceiling, fingers twitching as he tried to come up with an accurate count before giving it up as too-complex a problem "—a few times," he continued smoothly. "Yet every time I call him past ten, he automatically assumes I'm calling to ask him to bail me out of the clink." 

"Clink?" 

"Nick, gaol...prison...jail...lockup...penitentiary...whatever the word is," Sherlock explained, gesturing with the tumbler he held in his right hand. The liquid inside sloshed dangerously, but didn't spill over the rim. Frowning, Sherlock finished it and signaled the waitress for another round. 

"Well, I can still kind of empathize with your brother." John replied, grinning. "Most of us had that message drilled into our heads by our parents. At least he got lucky and you grew up to be a functional adult," John continued, a faint trace of bitterness colouring his tone. "Harry's only a few minutes younger than me, but the way she acts, it could be a decade. She's always calling me up, asking me to bail her out of trouble and half the time it's because she's...well...never mind." John gave a quick, tight smile. "Let's not talk about that. Changing the topic, do you play piano?" 

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes as he attempted to follow John's non sequitur. 

"You're tapping your fingers against the table top, like you're practicing," John explained, tilting his head to indicate Sherlock's left hand. "Clara—my ex sister-in-law—has the same habit. She was originally going to be a concert pianist before she went to law school." 

"Oh. No. Myc's the pianist in the family. I play the violin." 

"Really?" 

"Yep," Sherlock said, popping the 'p'. 

"How long?" 

"I started lessons shortly after my fourth birthday." 

"That's brilliant. Why violin?" 

"Because I wasn't allowed to play the bagpipes and violin was the next best choice to annoy my brother." 

John burst into giggles. "Christ. I can see that," he said, shaking his head from side to side. "So, torturing your brother aside, what style did you learn? Bluegrass? Folk? Country?" 

"Mostly Classical and Romantic pieces, actually," Sherlock said, raising and lowering his shoulders. 

John's smile grew. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his left hand. "You know, I'd love to hear you play sometime." 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "That would be difficult, as I didn't bring her with me." 

"Her?" 

"My violin. She's old and quite valuable. I didn't want to risk her getting broken during travel." 

"Oh, thanks," John said, accepting the refill the waitress handed him before returning his attention to Sherlock. "I guess that makes sense. Clara told me once that musicians who play those really expensive instruments—Stradivariuses? Stradavari? Whatever the plural is—they buy plane seats for them, instead of sticking them in the cargo hold. She told me only an idiot would trust a baggage handler with a million dollar instrument." 

"Indeed." The value of his own, beloved Guarneri certainly fit that criteria, though the insured value was far eclipsed by his sentimental attachment to the instrument and the memories it invoked of Daddy's playing and his beloved first teacher, Mr. Mancini. "Did you have any cases involving psychopathic bovines?" Sherlock asked, deliberately changing the topic. 

John shook his head. "Not this time, fortunately. Just a few run-of-the-mill cases involving a kick here, or a pulled ligament there. I've put a few more feelers out though among the other circuit vets. Hopefully one of them will call if they see something strange." 

"That's good." 

"What about you? Did anything strange happen with any of your horses this weekend?" John asked, tilting his head to one side. 

"Mmmm...yes. Or no. Maybe?" Sherlock furrowed his brow, trying to articulate what he had noticed on the first day, but the idea flickering through his brain was too small and too quick for him to seize, like the minnows he and Redbeard used to chase when he was a small child. "Perhaps?" Sherlock asked, scrunching up his nose as he tried to think. "I don't know. I can't be certain." 

"Can you say that again, only in English?" John asked dryly. 

"I was speaking English, John. Specifically the King's English," Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes and tapping a forefinger emphatically against the table top. "It's hardly my fault that your plebeian little mind isn't capable of following my perfectly coherent string of logic. 

"Sure Billy," John chuckled, taking a sip of his bourbon. "You go right on thinking that." 

"It was something green," Sherlock insisted, waving one hand as if he could pluck the thought from thin air. "But the specifics escape me." 

"Okay..." John said slowly, putting his drink down and resting his chin on the heel of his palm. "Green like a plant? Green like a truck? Green...signs? Green tools? Green...clothing?" 

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, grinning maniacally. "A hat. A green cowboy hat." 

"Well that's hardly much to go on," John pointed out reasonably. "There's all sorts of people wearing green cowboy hats around here. Especially around Saint Patrick's Day." 

Sherlock blinked, nonplussed. "Saint Patrick's day is almost a month past. More importantly, what does an Irish Catholic Saint's holy day have to do with green cowboy hats?" 

John raised an eyebrow, like he couldn't believe why Sherlock was asking. "Because bars tend to have St. Paddy's Day specials and wearing green is an easy way to show your Irish heritage?" 

Sherlock didn't even bother to hide his snort of disgust. "It's 'Patrick' not 'Paddy' and there is far more to honoring one's heritage than simply wearing clothing in a specific colour. Considering your own Scottish heritage, I'm sure you are at least a little offended by idiots who wear random kilt patterns with no regard for the history or familial affiliation." 

John blinked. "You can tell I'm Scottish?" 

"Of course," Sherlock replied, waving a dismissive hand. "Your facial features and fair colouring—specifically your blue eyes and the shape of your nose—express the phenotype that is genetically common for that region of Europe. I noticed that one of the bandanas you carried in your truck was the Watson tartan pattern and that doesn't include the rather obvious clue in your surname." 

John opened and closed his mouth several times, shaking his head in amazement. "That's astonishing. You got all that from a look?" 

"Of course." 

"Wow," John breathed, his eyes bright. "Okay...so if you got all that from one look, the fact that you noticed a green hat has to be important somehow. What happened?" 

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, frowning as he tried to articulate what he'd noticed. "When I was helping unload the bucking strings on Friday morning, both Edith and I noticed that quite a few horses seemed unusually ornery. Alice and George both dismissed it as normal behavior after being confined to a trailer for several hours, but it seems strange, especially in light of Molly's comment about the Triple C's training practices. I also noticed that several other horses in nearby pens were acting skittish." 

John pursed his lips. "Okay...so...how does the green cowboy hat come into it?" 

"When I looked in the direction the wind was blowing from, I saw a group of rodeo clowns talking with some reporters. One of them was wearing a green cowboy hat." 

"Still not following." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's hardy surprising." 

"Hey!" 

"Hay is for horses, John, not for people," Sherlock quipped, ignoring the annoyed look John gave him. "Look," Sherlock continued, leaning forward so he could stare intently at John. "There's an online video of a horse going psychotic after a man wearing a green cowboy hat walked by its stall. During one of the bull-rides, I also noticed a horse trying to rear when a bull was charging at it. The rodeo clown standing beside him the same green-hatted one from earlier." 

John raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you know just as well as I do that horses have dichromatic vision. Their color perception isn't really that great, so I'm not sure if the color green is that significant. Maybe it's the hat? Maybe the shape is some sort of...I dunno...behavioral trigger?" John's tone was doubtful, as if he didn't quite believe his own suggestion. 

"In multiple different horses? In two different cities?" Sherlock snorted. "Behavioral triggers require the animal being exposed to a specific negative stimulus multiple times to develop the required aversion. I don't think that's it." 

John shrugged, almost, but not completely managing to hide his flash of annoyance. "I didn't say it was a great theory, but it beats the color one." 

"Harrumph," Sherlock replied, taking another sip of his bourbon. 

"One thing puzzles me, though," Jon said slowly. "You said that you saw one of the pickup men's horse's trying to rear during a competition?" 

"Yes?" 

"That's strange." 

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "Panicking and trying to flee seems like perfectly sensible reaction to being charged by a bull." 

John took a sip of his bourbon and shook his head. "For a normal horse, sure. But, well, those horses are trained not to—they have to be, else the pickup men couldn't do their jobs. It's dangerous enough without having to worry about a panicking horse. Move out of the way, sure, but not rearing. That's an easy way to get yourself disemboweled. I had a case involving just that situation a couple of months ago." 

"Mmmm..." Sherlock replied, deciding to forego mentioning that he'd already read about the incident on Kitty Riley's website. 

"Do you remember who it was?" John asked, tipping his head to one side. 

"No. Why would I?" 

"Ah, right, you haven't been in this circuit for years like I have." 

"You know most of the people?" 

John raised and lowered one shoulder. "Enough of them. The long-term regulars, like the pickup men, most of the clowns, the judges, the vets and the serious competitors that is. I'll ask around, if you like? See if I can figure out whose horse it was? Ask them to contact you?" 

"Please," Sherlock agreed. It might turn out to be a dead end, but it couldn't hurt to investigate the lead, however faint it was. It also spoke well for John's possible innocence that he was willing to ask on Sherlock's behalf. 

John grinned and ducked his head. "No problem. I'm glad to help." 

They spent long several minutes drinking in companionable silence. John looked up from time to time, a happy little grin on his face. Each time he did, Sherlock felt the pool of warmth in his belly grow. It was nice to spend time with somebody who so visibly appreciated his company. The lights began to dim, accompanied by the scuffling, dragging sound of something heavy being moved. Sherlock turned to see several members of the waitstaff pulling tables and chairs back, clearing a large space in front of the bar's stage. "John," Sherlock asked, his tone curious as he watched the majority of the bar's patrons move to the now-cleared space and spread out into lines. "What's going on?" 

John turned his head to look over his shoulder. "Look's like the line dancing's about to start," he replied with a shrug. 

"Line dancing?" Sherlock repeated, eyeing the crowd with decided skepticism as the music suddenly increased in volume, perhaps to be audible over the sudden noise of patrons whooping and hollering. 

"Yeah. They generally play pretty decent music here, especially on the weekends," John explained, picking his cup up again. 

"That doesn't look like any type of dancing I've ever seen," Sherlock observed scathingly as he watched the patrons begin to stomp their boots and tipping their hats in response to the appalling lyrics ordering them to 'shake it for the birds, shake it for the bees, shake it for the catfish swimmin' down deep'. 

John paused in the act of raising his drink to his lips, attention caught by Sherlock's tone. "You can't tell me you've never seen line dancing before...you said you're from Montana!" 

"I am," Sherlock snapped quickly, adhering to his cover story. "But I had little enough interest in socializing in bars at home and even fewer opportunities to do so." 

"Sorry, sorry," John said, holding up his hands apologetically. "I know you take your Work very seriously...I'm just...you've seriously never gone dancing before?" 

"No," Sherlock huffed, purposely omitting a good portion of his youth and the odious social functions and lessons he was forced to endure. "Why would I?" 

"Because it's fun?" John retorted. "It's a chance for some people to mingle, flirt...maybe get laid?" 

"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping his 'p'. 

"Do you want to try? 

Sherlock raised his left eyebrow, communicating silently how idiotic he found John's suggestion. John did not seem fazed. 

"Wipe that look off your face," John mock-scolded. "Don't think I didn't notice you tapping along in time with the beat," John added, directing his gaze to Sherlock's errant left hand. "So...do you?" 

Sherlock stilled his fingers, embarrassed to have been caught. He bit his lip frantically trying to think of a way out without offending John again. "I don't know any of the steps..." Sherlock tried, purposely making his voice hesitant. "And I don't much care for making a complete arse of myself." 

"Jesus, Billy," John swore, shaking his head in exasperation. "If that's your only problem, I'm more than happy to help!" 

"What? Help me make an arse of myself?" Sherlock asked tartly. 

"No, you dick," John said with a laugh, "I can teach you the steps. It's easy!" 

Sherlock raised his left eyebrow again. "You're...volunteering to teach me to dance?" 

>"Well yeah..." John said, his brow furrowing as he gave Sherlock a scrutinizing look. "Unless you don't want to, that is? Which is fine, by the way." 

"I know it's fine...I'm just...surprised that you'd offer. To teach me, that is. 

"Why?" 

"I...would think the sight of two men dancing together would be taboo in Texas." Sherlock bit his lip and looked down at the table before he flicked his gaze back up to meet John's. "Also, I really don't fancy getting my nose or teeth bashed in." 

John blinked, clearly shocked at the suggestion. "What?! Why on earth would you think that?" 

Sherlock purposely directed a significant look to the table full of inebriated idiots that were still chugging beer and shots like they were water. "We're in the South. Surely the visual of two men dancing together is sufficient provocation for a drunken, homophobic idiot to start a fight." 

John looked over, one eyebrow raised scrutinizingly before shaking his head. "Them? Nah," John said easily. "They won't bother us, not unless they saw us slow-dancing together. See, that's the great thing about line dancing. Since we're all dancing side by side, nobody cares who you're dancing with. Plus, as I already mentioned, since dancing is a great way to pick up partners, a lot of guys take the time to teach their friends." 

"Oh," Sherlock said inanely, his mind's eye suddenly full of visions of being held against John's muscular body, of holding John's warm hand in his own, feeling John's thighs brush against his... 

"So, what do you think?" John asked, his eyes eager. 

Sherlock blinked, letting his apprehensions evaporate in the face of John's apparent enthusiasm for the idea. "Fine," he agreed reluctantly. 

"Great! Stand up," John ordered, tossing the rest of his drink back and urging Sherlock to follow suit. 

"What, here?" Sherlock asked, trying not to stagger as he indicated the sea of cowboy hats, raucous laughter and cheerfully drunk bar goers surrounding them and hemming them in. 

"Ah...right," John said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess we do need a bit of space. Come on. Follow me." 

John led them to an even more secluded corner, far enough away from the bar that they didn't have to worry about the crush of other patrons. "They give free lessons every week at six," John began, "but you'll catch on almost immediately, considering how good you are at observing people and deducing what they're about to do next." He gave Sherlock an encouraging look. 

"Hmmmm...So...how does one do this again?" Sherlock asked, purposely keeping his voice different from its usual self-confident tones. John enjoyed playing the protector—and keeping his vocal patterns hesitant was an easy way to foster that behavior. 

"A lot of the dances are set dances that 'most everybody has memorized...the Electric Slide, the Cha Cha Slide, Cotton-Eyed Joe, but you'll pick them up pretty quick, once you know the basic steps." John set his hands on his hips, indicating that Sherlock should mimic him. "There's your basic two-step," he began, demonstrating with an easy, confident grace, "and the grapevine, followed by the heel touch." The soles of John's boots thumped against the bar's wooden floor as he walked through the dance movements. "You should also do a bit of the side-to-side, and don't forget to put your hips into it. You with me so far?" 

Sherlock nodded, copying John's steps, being careful to appear hesitant. It wasn't that much of a stretch. The alcohol in his system made everything seem slightly fuzzy and wobbly and he had to be careful of where he placed his feet. Fortunately, while the moves John was patiently demonstrating were new, none of them were particularly challenging. Especially not for someone who'd had countless hours of formal ballroom dance lessons when he was younger. Watching John in 'teacher' mode also gave him the perfect chance to watch John closely without it being considered 'creepy'. 

John's tongue was peeking out from between his lips as was apparently his habit when he was concentrating on something. His hands were resting on his belt, automatically framing the championship buckle he proudly wore. The polished metal flashed and gleamed in the dim light as John continued to walk Sherlock through more basic steps: stomps, contra body movements, promenades and heel twists. John wasn't a professional dancer like Vaslav Nijinsky or Martha Graham; Sherlock had see videos of their performances and well knew the muscle control and practice it took to achieve that level of effortless grace. In a way, it was similar to the same training by high-level dressage competitors. What John lacked in fine muscle control, however, he made up for in experience and enthusiasm, and Sherlock felt the last of his inhibitions evaporate under the alcohol's warm, fuzzy glow. 

Predictably, the exercise began to make both men perspire, which opened a whole new fascinating set of things to catalogue. The thin cotton of John's shirt was beginning to cling to Jon's sweat-dampened skin, highlighting the muscular planes of his chest. Despite the dim lights, Sherlock could make out a drop of sweat trickling down John's throat. It rested there, in John's suprasternal notch for a moment, before another twist of John's torso sent it trickling down John's chest. _Did John have chest hair?_ Sherlock found himself wondering. He swallowed, trying—and failing—to suppress his curiosity about the colour. He knew that the hair on John's arms was golden, but would the hair on his chest be the same shade, or would it be darker? Bronze perhaps? Or brown? And what about the curls around his cock? Would they be the same golden-grey as his hair, or not? 

"Billy? Billy? You in there?" 

Sherlock blinked as a forefinger suddenly tapped him on the brim of his hat. He blinked again, realizing belatedly that he'd been staring at John, rather than copying the other man's steps. Judging by John's tone and slightly concerned expression, he'd probably been trying to get Sherlock's attention for a while. "Sorry. I...got...distracted...watching you," Sherlock stammered, pushing the brim of his hat back so he could better see. "What was that last step?" 

"The 'Applejack' or 'Fancy Feet'," John answered, a smug grin replacing his concerned expression. He twisted, swiveling the toes and heels of his boots to make series of successive 'V' shapes in time with the 'Honky Tonk, badonkaonk' chorus blaring over the overhead PA system. The motion carried John across the floor, away from Sherlock, but it also did glorious thing to John's hips and thighs. 

"Ah," Sherlock replied, knowing that despite his best efforts, his words came out sounding half-strangled. "Can you show me again?" 

"Sure," John replied, moving back towards Sherlock. "Now you try it with me." 

Sherlock nodded and complied, forcing himself to concentrate on the motion and not on how John's very, very beguiling pelvis looked. 

"Yeah, that's it...you're a natural!" John said, his grin growing wider as he watched Sherlock. 

"Hardly," Sherlock said dismissively. It wasn't natural ability, it was experience. Mummy had insisted that both her sons be schooled in a myriad of upper-class pastimes. Even under the influence, swiveling his boots from side to side and traveling in a straight line was hardly a challenge for somebody who'd learned to avoid Mycroft's enormous feet during their ballroom dance lessons. And that was to say nothing of the sibling rivalry that had reared its head during their brief stint studying the Argentine tango. 

"Right, well...now that you've got some of the basic steps, you can start throwing some body movements in, move your arms a bit. The 'Bronco Twist' is a good one," John said, demonstrating. "And you can always do a hip roll, or hip bump, maybe slap your thigh on beat with the music, like this," John continued, slapping his hand against his left thigh with an audible crack as the music crescendoed. 

The song was idiotic in the extreme, Sherlock decided, but watching John move was a pleasure. Well aware that he was being observed, John executed a quick bit of footwork, bringing one leg up across his body at a diagonal and touching his knee with his opposite elbow, highlighting his flexibility. Still grinning, John repeated the move with his other leg, then rolled his hips in a brief shimmy. The way the black denim clung to the muscles of his thighs and arse was starting to attract interested looks from several nearby women. One or two whistled in encouragement, prompting John to send a cheeky wink in their direction. 

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance. That was...not good. With a sniff, he duplicated body-cross movement flawlessly. He opted to add a few hip drops, taking advantage of the belly-dance lessons he'd had in Turkey. "Like that?" Sherlock asked, deliberately giving John a sultry look through his eyelashes and purposely ignoring the feminine whoops his own demonstration incurred. 

"Um, yeah, yeah, that...good." John swallowed hard and licked his lips. He tilted his head, indicating the dance floor up front. "So...fancy trying it with the crowd?" 

_No_ , Sherlock though jealously. He didn't want to see John's arse being ogled by a bunch of strangers. Aloud he said simply, "If you think so, but off to the side, please. I don't fancy making a fool of myself if I miss a step." 

John snorted, bumping him lightly in the shoulder as they cut through the crowd. "Billy, with your looks, you have nothing to worry about. Come on." 

The crowd at the front of the bar had thickened while John had been teaching him, growing from a handful of dancers to several rows. Several women waved and whistled as they spotted John, shuffling aside to make space in their line for the two newcomers just in time for somebody to recognize the next song's intro and scream "Cowboy Up!" 

"Where should I stand?" Sherlock asked in an undertone as he looked around awkwardly at the people around him, suddenly feeling self conscious. It was one thing to dance in front of John when they were relatively unobserved, it was quite another to do it as part of a crowd. "And what do I do if I don't know the dance?" 

"In front of me, or beside me rather," John replied, setting his hands on his belt and beginning to shake his hips in time with the bass line. "Don't look so scared; just do what I do and you'll be fine!" 

Sherlock blew out a breath and honed his focus on John's body the way he did when working with horses. John was right; he deduced the actions and reactions of eighty-five stone animals for a living. Reading the tensing of John's muscles to anticipate the way the other man would turn or jump would be child's play for somebody with his skills. 

Halfway through the first song, Sherlock felt himself relax. It was odd to realize that he was actually having fun. The lyrics were idiotic in the extreme—something about cowboys 'cowboying up' all night long set to a heavy bass line, but it was worth enduring the aural assault to watch John turn and twist and sway and laugh. It also became a game to see if he could anticipate the moves before John's hissed instructions. By the time the second song was complete, Sherlock was openly laughing, delighting in John's appreciative winks and seeing if he could impress John with a fancy bit of footwork lifted from his tango lessons. 

More than few of the techniques were incredibly sexually suggestive: pelvic thrusts, shoulder shakes that emphasized the cleavage of the women, hip swings that emphasized the gluteus maximus. As if to illustrate the point, John suddenly whooped and landed a healthy smack to the derriere of the voluptuous blond to his right, before spinning around and repeating the smack on Sherlock's arse. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see several men and women echoing the gesture, so apparently it was a culturally acceptable thing. Before he could reciprocate though, the line turned and the crowd began grapevining. _No matter, he would catch the next one,_ Sherlock thought almost giddily as he mirrored John's steps. 

Sherlock made it through another half-dozen songs before the heat and dehydration began to catch up and he stumbled involuntarily, almost knocking John over. 

"Whoa there," John said, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders and holding him upright as the taller man staggered and almost fell. "Your face is pretty red. Do you want to go outside? Maybe get some air?" 

"Please," Sherlock managed, blinking rapidly as he tried to coalesce the two different Johns into one individual. He felt dizzy, almost lightheaded from the exertion and John's proximity. Air, yes. Fresh air would be good. 

"Front or back?" 

"Mmmmm...back. Less noisy. More quiet." 

"Okay." John slung one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulder for support as he led them both through the crush of people and out an unobtrusive doorway marked 'EMPLOYEES ONLY'. The doorway opened to reveal a short hallway lined with extra chairs and other miscellaneous restaurant furnishings. Sherlock would have tripped into a stack of chairs if it hadn't been for John's steady support. The hallway terminated into an alley that was empty, save for some metal skips. The floodlight above the doorway cast a warm yellow glow over the space that was gratifyingly free of flying insects. There wasn't a breeze to be had, but the ambient temperature was several degrees cooler than the inside of the bar. 

Sherlock removed his irritating hat and dropped it to the ground. There was no reason to wear it outside. With sigh of relief, Sherlock leaned against the wall. He could feel the trapped heat of the day radiating from the rough bricks at his back, their warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. John's warm hands were wrapped around his arms and doing a marvelous job of holding him upright. The thump of drums and the over-amplified twang of the music's steel-string guitars was still audible through the brick, keeping time with the thudding of his pulse, but the noise was far-enough removed that it no longer felt like it was pounding through his skull like a farrier's hammer against an anvil. Sherlock blew out a breath and then inhaled deeply, taking in the myriad of odours detectable in the warm, still air. He could detect hot tar and dust and traces of cigarette smoke from fags the staff no doubt smoked on their breaks. There was also the faint reek of garbage coming from the skips at the end. Overlaying it all though was the scent of the man standing in front of him: clean sweat, cologne, leather and something spicy and unmistakably masculine. The combination made Sherlock's mouth water. 

"Better?" John asked, tipping his head to one side as he studied Sherlock's face. Both of his hands were still gripping Sherlock's biceps with gentle but firm pressure, more solicitous than seductive. _It was infuriating,_ Sherlock thought. He could feel the warmth of John's hands seeping through his shirt and into his skin, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more...more skin, more contact...more friction... 

"Your pupils are pretty dilated, Billy," John observed aloud, his head tilting to one side, when Sherlock didn't say anything. "How's your head?" John asked, reaching up and tilting Sherlock's chin down. He leaned a little closer so he could peer into Sherlock's eyes, his own eyes narrowing in concerned concentration as he studied Sherlock's face. It was the same diagnostic look Sherlock had observed watching John care for his animal patients; it combined concern and compassion with a clinical analysis and sharp intelligence that was incredibly arousing. 

Sherlock felt his lips part involuntarily, his mouth flooding with saliva. The throbbing in his cock was echoing the thudding of his pulse. His palms itched with the urge to grab John and pull him closer, to see if John was as affected as he was. "You're also still looking a little flushed," John commented. His voice sent little puffs of warm air across Sherlock's cheeks, making the taller man shiver. "You feeling alright?" 

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock growled in disgust. He lowered his chin and glared at John, frustrated by John's apparent obliviousness. Surely somebody as...sexually experienced as John was could tell the signals of sexual arousal apart from slight intoxication? "I. Am. Fine." 

"Hey now, none of that," John mock-scolded, blithely ignoring Sherlock's glare. "How many did you have, anyway, hmm? Do you want me to get you some water Bill—Y!" John yelped in surprise as Sherlock gave into temptation, grabbed him by the shoulders and spun the two of them around. John grunted at the impact of Sherlock's chest against his own as Sherlock shoved the shorter man's back against the alley wall and dove in to claim his mouth. 

Sherlock growled. John's lips were warm and slightly chapped. It took only the lightest brush of Sherlock's tongue against the bottom one to encourage them to part. _John tasted like salt,_ Sherlock thought dizzily, _a little like the honey bourbon he'd drunk and something unquantifiable and quintessentially John...as if all of the vet's personality and charms had been distilled into the flavour of his mouth..._ Sherlock could feel the thick length of John's penis through his jeans, and the other man wasn't even fully aroused yet. _Hung like a horse and with balls to make a bull jealous indeed,_ Sherlock thought giddily, as John's lips and tongue slid against his own in a hot, wet tangle. He groaned. John was an addicting high, better than cocaine, even... 

"Wait, wait, wait," John gasp, tearing his mouth away from Sherlock's with visible reluctance. 

"I don't wanna wait," Sherlock growled, too frustrated to bother enunciating properly. He bent his head again eagerly, intending to reclaim John's mouth, only to be thwarted by a sudden, sharp sting of John's palm smacking him in the chest. 

"Billy! Hold on for just a sec!" John barked. 

John's voice carried the crack of military command and Sherlock found himself straightening up involuntarily. "What?" Sherlock snapped defensively, blinking rapidly as he tried to process what had gone wrong. John had been kissing him back and the unexpected rejection felt like a shard of ice had suddenly settled in his belly, making him want to shiver despite the sweltering air. "Did I misunderstand your intentions?" Sherlock demanded, pulling his pride about him like a metaphorical Belstaff. "Do you not want me to kiss you?"" 

"Christ Billy, no, no!" John said, shaking his head emphatically, his gaze apologetic. He shifted his palm from Sherlock's chest to his shoulder, strong fingers holding Sherlock in place, or perhaps anchoring him, lest he flee. "I want you to kiss me. Of course I do. I just want to make—" 

"Good. Then do catch up, John," Sherlock ordered, relief surging through him at the verbal confirmation. "I'm here, you're here...we're both consenting adults...we're in a relatively private area...surely you can do the maths..." Sherlock bent forward and let his nose graze John's jawline. "You smell delectable..." he rumbled, letting his tongue dart out to taste the clean sweat that dewed John's neck, "and you taste like sunlight, John." 

"Thanks," John huffed, instinctively tilting his head to one side to allow Sherlock greater access. "But you didn't answer my quest—Oh Christ!" John swore as Sherlock latched on and began sucking at his pulse point. "Billy—" 

"What?" Sherlock growled, releasing John's skin with an audible pop and leaning back to admire his handiwork. His mouth had left a noticeable pink mark behind that promised to darken into lovely bruise. He could see John's pulse fluttering madly against the bronzed skin of his throat, like the trapped wings of a bird. It was glorious. 

"I...ah...thought you wanted to take it slow? Because this is not taking it slow Bill—oh god," John grunted as Sherlock's hands curled around his arse and squeezed. 

"Don't care," Sherlock panted, nuzzling at John's throat again while his hands kneaded John's glutes. They were firm and well muscled, with just enough fat padding to give them a nice, grippable spring. "You smell amazing. Did I just say you smell amazing? Because you do. Leather and sweat and musk...Even that horrible cologne you are wearing isn't as bad as I thought it was..." 

"Billy," John groaned, "stop talking." He stretched up, his strong fingers threading through Sherlock's curls and tugging gently, encouraging Sherlock to bring his lips back to John's own. 

The music changed to something with a driving rhythm that provided the perfect counterpoint to their heated gasps and muttered curses as hands groped and lips and tongues tangled in a heated dance. 

"I've been thinking about this for days," Sherlock confessed dizzily when their mouths next parted, his words coming in little, hitching pants that did nothing to enhance the flow of oxygen to his brain. "It's been maddening, watching you ride, watching you work, watching you dance—" 

"Yeah?" John growled, breathing hard, "well turnabout is fair play. I've been fantasizing about your mouth for _weeks_." 

Sherlock squeaked in surprise as John suddenly grabbed him about the waist, spun and shoved Sherlock's back against the wall in turn, only to let the noise trail off into a moan as John renewed his assault on Sherlock's kiss-swollen lips. 

_John was devouring him like a starving man at a banquet,_ Sherlock thought muzzily through the haze of endorphins and alcohol, listening to John's heated gasps of what else he wanted to put in Sherlock's mouth. _Or maybe Mycroft at a sweet shop._ There was no other descriptor for it. Sherlock giggled at the brief thought, the sound quickly dissolving into a pleased groan as John paused long enough to trace the edges of Sherlock's lips and teeth before plunging back in, his tongue brushing against Sherlock's in a slick slide. _John's cunning tongue was going to be the death of him,_ Sherlock decided as John changed the angle of his head, making him groan. 

Victor had seen kissing as a quick, formal prelude to the far-more-important act of intercourse or fellatio. John, however, kissed like he was happy to spend all night doing so. 

_And it wasn't boring. At. All._

The play of John's lips against his own made him want to beg, or melt into a puddle, or both. _He probably would,_ Sherlock thought weakly, if it weren't for John. He could feel the warmth of John's callused palms bleeding through the thin cotton of his shirt, holding him firmly upright even though the world was threatening to tip sideways. As if sensing it, John moved closer, insinuating one firm leg between Sherlock's to hold him place and blanketing him against the wall with his entire chest. 

"For God's sake," Sherlock gasped as John began to ply teeth and tongue against one of his ears while John's thumbs began to sweep along Sherlock's Adonis belt in teasing lines that sent sparks of sensation rippling through his groin. Sherlock grabbed John's head and pulled him closer in encouragement. He knew ears were erogenous zones in theory, but he'd never realized that a tongue there could ever feel anything other than wet. It felt amazing, like his entire body was undergoing a mild electric shock from an electric fence, only one that was pleasurable instead of painful. He could also feel John's length throbbing against his thigh, despite it being obscured by two layers of denim. Helplessly, Sherlock reached down and clutched John's hips, bringing him closer so he could rut against John's leg. He enjoyed the tingles the friction caused, even though his ability to maintain his own erection was rapidly fading. Taking the hint, John began rocking as well, his hips moving with the same fluid grace he displayed while riding as he humped Sherlock's leg. 

"Ride 'em, cowboy," Sherlock mumbled, before dissolving into snickers. 

"Hmmm? What was that?" John asked, pulling back, a quizzical expression on his face. 

"This plashe," Sherlock slurred, letting go of one of John's arse-cheeks long enough so he could wave an all-encompassing hand. "Ooops. Sorry," Sherlock added as he accidently whacked John in temple. John's hair was adorably mussed from Sherlock's fingers and his brow was furrowed in concern, making him look like an angry hedgehog. Sherlock reached out considerately to straighten it, almost poking John in the eye. 

"Billy?" John asked, ducking his head, his voice switching from 'seductive' to 'concerned' while lines furrowed his brown. 

Sherlock stuck out his bottom lip petulantly. _No. That wasn't right._ He didn't want John to be concerned. He wanted John to continue kissing him. Clearly John needed a reminder. Sherlock nodded his head emphatically at his (admittedly) brilliant plan. He leaned forward, hoping to reclaim John's mouth and the wonderful sensations it provoked, but John moved back out of range. Sherlock frowned in confusion and took a step forward, away from the wall, only to overbalance and fall forward, landing on his knees. Only John's strong hands kept Sherlock from hitting the ground face-first. "Jawn?" Sherlock asked plaintively from his undignified heap on the ground. He could feel the grit and detritus of the alley poking him through the knees of his jeans. It was uncomfortable. "Jawn?" Sherlock repeated, looking up with what Mrs. Hudson scoldingly referred to as his 'sad puppy eyes—usually when he'd managed to successfully guilt her into making him a cup of tea. He squinted, trying to get his eyes to focus. John (annoyingly enough) was looking a bit blurry around the edges. _How was he supposed to study and appreciate the myriad of details on John's perfect face if the man persisted in looking blurry. Or fuzzy. Or...faded?_ Sherlock thought, part of him distantly aware that he may have spoken aloud. 

"Christ. You. Are. _Utterly_ shit-faced," John announced sadly, confirming Sherlock's fear. John knelt, bringing his face level with Sherock's. "How did I not see that?" John continued bitterly, shaking his head slowly from side to side before scrubbing one hand over his face. 

The question seemingly more self-recriminating and rhetorical than directed at Sherlock, so Sherlock ignored it in favor of far more pressing matters. "It's not important—" 

"Not important!" John began indignation bristling from every fiber of his frame. 

_Very much like a perturbed hedgehog,_ Sherlock decided. No matter. He had more important things to worry about. "Come here," Sherlock ordered imperiously, speaking over John's protests. He pawed weakly at John's shoulder, trying to urge the other man closer. It was becoming harder and harder to focus. "I wasn't done with you," Sherlock slurred. 

"I can't. Not like this," John sighed, regret imbibing every line of his frame. "Up you get." John slung one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulder and pulled him to his feet like he weighed nothing. Sherlock began to fall and John hurriedly wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's waist in support. "Come on," John continued bruskly, his voice sounding like it was coming from a long, dark tunnel. "Let's get you home." 

~*~


	15. Best Laid Plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pauses from erecting barricade* So fair warning: This chapter ends on a cliffhanger and it takes me 1-2 months to write each chapter. Enjoy!

~*~

Heat...friction...hot breaths, the rough rasp of cotton and callused palms against trembling flesh…the steady beat of his pulse...the humid press of lips against his skin, the scent of cigarette smoke and the warmth of another body pressed against his own….

So...good.

"Gorgeous," John breathed, licking his lips, his eyes crinkling in approval as he stared down at the strip of skin bared by Sherlock's unbuttoned shirt. "I can't wait to see what else you're hiding under here," John added, reaching a hand down and cupping Sherlock's groin. 

Sherlock sighed his approval as John's tousled blond head began to inch its way down his torso, tracing leisurely paths of sensation across Sherlock's bare skin with his lips and tongue like a man on a mission...or maybe a gourmand at a buffet. Methodical. Deliberate. Seductive. Arousing. _Of course John's reputation as a skilled lover was deserved,_ Sherlock thought hazily as John's tongue began to circle his navel with torturously slow intensity, hinting at other, more intimate acts. John hardly would have earned the moniker 'Three Circuits Watson' otherwise. 

With a soft grunt, John shifted and draped his muscular frame across Sherlock's legs, making Sherlock groan in pleasure at the weight. John's body was satisfyingly heavy; he could feel it pushing him down into the bed, pinning him in place. The pressure made him feel safe and sheltered, like one of Mrs. Hudson's good, thick quilts on a cold day or Redbeard's comforting weight on his bed during a thunderstorm when he was a small child. 

He gasped as John shifted again, abandoning the sensual torture of his navel to bury his nose in Sherlock's groin instead. Sherlock's breath hitched as John began to inhale and exhale deeply, his nose nudging at Sherlock's burgeoning erection. He could feel the warmth of John's breath against sensitive skin, even through the dual layers of his jeans and pants. Sherlock closed his eyes again to better focus on the sensory input and the tide of pleasure surging through his body. He was barely awake, but that was fine. He had no intention of making John stop anytime soon.

It had been _years_ since he'd encountered somebody who could affect him by their mere presence, Sherlock mused distantly as John continued to huff his scent. Even Victor, who had prided himself on his reputation for sexual prowess, had had to work to generate a satisfactory response from Sherlock. Alcohol had helped, as had the occasional dose of methylenedioxy-methamphetamine. John though, John was barely touching him and he could already feel heat and heaviness began pooling in his groin, mute testament to the slow thrum of arousal that John was effortlessly invoking.

 _Dear God,_ Sherlock thought, opening his eyes long enough to stare down at the top of John's blond head in silent admiration before closing them again. _What would fellatio be like—let alone intercourse—if John could do this to him with his breath and body weight alone?_

Sherlock bit his bottom lip as John rubbed his nose across his clothed erection again, snuffling noisily. He inhaled, hoping to fill his lungs with the scent of John's sweat and cologne in turn, but the traces that came to his nose were surprisingly faint. Perhaps John had showered it off earlier? No matter. What he really wanted to do was touch John in turn. He wanted to run his hands over John's smooth skin, trace his fingers and tongue over the secret dips and hollows of John's muscular frame, see if he could make the other man buck and gasp and swear, but his entire body felt heavy. Leaden. Like somebody had replaced all of his bones and muscles with raw bread dough. 

Part of him knew that he should probably be concerned. Even the details of how he'd gotten...wherever he currently was were blurry, but he couldn't be arsed to care. It wasn't important. He felt...well. The sensation of heaviness suffusing his limbs, overlain by the slow thrum of arousal was surprisingly blissful. Like one of Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers, or the Xanax and Valium that he and Victor used to take when life was too much and they needed a way to quiet their minds.

John's hands began smoothing up and down his torso, before grabbing his shoulder and shaking it. Sherlock furrowed his brow in annoyance, his eyes still closed. That...wasn't what he wanted. He wanted John to do something clever with his fingers. Maybe tweak his nipples…or run his thumbs over his cheekbones, or maybe undo Sherlock's zip, free his throbbing penis and fellate it. Not this...shaking. Sherlock opened his mouth to say so, but all that came out was a garbled mumble of sound as his tongue refused to cooperate.

"Billy?"

Sherlock grunted again to indicate his annoyance, deciding actual speech was too much work. No matter. John was clever; he'd figure it out.

"Come on," John hissed. "Open your eyes, Billy. We've got to go," he added, making Sherlock abruptly revise his prior estimation of John's intelligence. 

_Go? Where? _Sherlock thought petulantly, shaking his head in disagreement. The bed he was lying on was comfortable and he had no desire to 'go' anywhere. To use the absolutely lowbrow term, the only thing he was interested in doing with John was 'coming' and apparently John couldn't even get _that_ right.__

"Billy Scott, you open your eyes right now!" John ordered, allowing a hint of 'Captain Watson' to slip into his voice, his tone brooking no argument. 

With a helpless gasp, Sherlock obeyed John's command… 

...only to grunt in anguish and slam his eyes closed in self defense as the light from the halogen fixtures overhead pierced his retinas. The light resembled streaks of lightning, or shards of broken mirrors, burrowing into his brain like high-velocity projectiles and strewing pain in their wake. An agonized whine forced its way through Sherlock's clenched teeth. He had the horrible feeling that he was about to be horribly, violently ill. 

He started to raise himself up on his elbows, but his progress was thwarted by the big, black labrador sleeping on the back of his legs. 

"Are you going to be sick?" Molly Hooper asked hesitantly, taking a large step backwards, out of range. "I think I can probably find in empty bucket if you're going to throw up?" Molly continued, clearly reading Sherlock's expression as he frantically shoved the big dog off of the cot and leaned over the edge, gagging. 

"Here," Molly offered, returning with a bucket, which she helpfully dropped underneath Sherlock's face. The stainless steel bucket struck the bare concrete floor with a reverberating crash that cut through Sherlock's throbbing skull like a chainsaw through glass. "Vomit in that," Molly suggested helpfully, her cheerful voice grating on Sherlock's already raw eardrums. "It'll be easier to clean up that way," she pointed out unnecessarily. 

_The yowling of an angry Siamese cat faced with a feline intruder in her territory would sound less irritating, _Sherlock thought miserably as he gagged and coughed, his stomach bringing up nothing but bile. The mortification at the situation he found himself in made his cheeks burn as he swallowed twice, trying to rid his mouth of the horrible taste of substandard American beer. What he wouldn't give for a black coffee and an entire bottle of Codeine and Paracetamol caplets, Mycroft's supercilious smirk at seeing him brought to such a state aside. "Where am I? What happened?" Sherlock finally managed to rasp out, his throat feeling as dry as the lightweight, volcanic aggregate some training facilities used as an underlayment in their stalls. "How the hell did I get here? The last thing I remember was being in the bar with everybody else." And didn't that make him sound like a prize idiot? He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, despite the fact that the motion made the room spin horribly, like one of those appalling carnival rides he and Molly had walked past earlier. Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to will his rebellious transport into quiescence._ _

Molly shrugged, her expression sympathetic as she watched him. "According to Alice and Edith, you joined everybody for a few rounds of shots and darts then vanished until it was almost closing time. Cody said you were sick over the side of the pickup truck a couple of times on the way back—which is why Owen said it'd be best to let you sleep it off in a stall, just in case you were sick again. Owen, George, and a few others have been taking turns checking on you all night during watch. We wanted to make sure you didn't choke to death on your own vomit or anything...though that would be kind of hard, seeing as we made sure to put you in the recovery position," Molly concluded with an awkward smile. 

"I see," Sherlock muttered, squeezing his eyes shut for moment as he pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger in a vain effort to quell the throbbing in his skull in a desperate attempt to get his to get his brain to move at a speed faster than that of cold treacle in January. He felt off-balance and dizzy, the demands of his transport clamoring for his attention. 

"Billy?" 

"Is there anything else I should be aware of?" Sherlock mumbled scrubbing the palms of his hands over his face in lieu of his wished-for coffee and drugs. 

"We're leaving in about an hour. I know you're probably not up to wrangling horses, so you can muck out stalls four through seven on row B. Oh...I should probably mention that you've got a new name. Alice's started calling you 'Lightweight Bill' since you apparently can't hold your liquor." 

"Such compassion," Sherlock said bitingly as his stomach roiled again at the mention of alcohol. "I can see why Joe Straker loved working with you all. With friends like you all, who needs enemies?" 

Molly sniffed. "It's 'y'all' not 'you all' and Joe didn't have friends. Honestly, he didn't seem to care about us one way or another. The only thing he seemed to care about was training horses, having lots of sex and bull rides." 

"Dull," Sherlock muttered. There was something important there, some thread that deserved pursuing, if only he could follow it. But the pounding in his head was making it impossible to do so. 

"Come on Billy," Molly chirruped, as if Sherlock were a recalcitrant horse. "Let's go. We don't have much time." 

"Oh piss off!" Sherlock groaned, trying to make his voice sound sharp and commanding, but even to his own ears, it came out sounding weak and ineffective. He flopped back on the cot, flinching slightly at the unexpected twinge of raw skin before he pulled the inferior poly-fill pillow over his face. It was a tactic that had worked well enough against his previous flatmates. 

"Billy Scott, that's _not_ nice," Molly scolded, yanking Sherlock's pillow away and glaring down at him with all the menace of a kitten. Cute and harmless-looking until antagonized, at which point painful, razor-sharp, pointy bits came into play. "It's hardly my fault you got shmammered last night." 

Sherlock cracked one eye open and glared up at Molly. Her arms were folded angrily across her chest and she was tapping one booted toe against the floor. The vibrations sounded like hailstones to Sherlock's ears. Molly's posture that was eerily reminiscent of the pose Mrs. Hudson assumed when she was preparing to make him sincerely regret his lack of impulse control when bored. _Discretion...valour, brother mine…_ his mental Mycroft said archly. _Oh._ Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut again. As annoying as it was to admit, Mycroft had a point. "That was rude of me," Sherlock mumbled. 

"Yes, it was," Molly agreed, still frowning. When Sherlock remained silent, Molly gave him a pointed look. "You should say you're sorry." 

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face again, trying to think like 'Billy' over the clamor inside his skull. "You're right," Sherlock agreed, giving Molly a rueful, self-depreciating smile as he sat back up. "My head hurts and I'm in a bad mood, but I shouldn't be taking it out on you." 

"No. You shouldn't," Molly huffed, clearly not mollified in the slightest. 

Sherlock blinked twice, recognizing that Molly was going to be a bit harder to gull into forgiving him. Fortunately, he had other tools he could deploy. Sherlock deliberately widened his eyes slightly, projecting innocence and sincerity. "I appreciate you waking me up. That was really very sweet of you. Especially since I know you're probably busy." He gave her another rueful half-smile, allowing his dimples to show. 

Molly sniffed once in derision but finally gave him a grudging smile in return. "I accept your apology, and you're welcome." 

"Do you know if there's any coffee left?" Sherlock asked, looking around for his hat. 

"I don't know," Molly replied doubtfully. "I can check? Would you like me to bring you some?" 

"Please," Sherlock said, infusing as much gratitude as he could into his request. "Black, two sugars." 

"Okay," Molly said, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. "No promises, but um...I'll see you in row B in a few minutes." 

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, giving Molly a winning smile. The moment her back was turned and she was safely out of range, Sherlock allowed his genial expression to fade, already turning his mind to the events of the previous night. Sherlock bent his head and sniffed at the front of his shirt and under one arm, his nose wrinkling at the stale odour of sweat and the sharp-sour tang of beer and vomit. The sweat indicated physical exertion, an overheated room, or some combination of the two. Bending down further, Sherlock sniffed his jeans: more beer, overlain with dust and worse. Still frowning, Sherlock picked up his boots and began blearily examining the soles for more trace evidence. 

Molly's summarization of the previous evening's events left enormous blocks of unanswered questions in its wake. What had happened between the dart game (which he fuzzily recalled) and him waking up in a horse stall? And how had he gotten drunk? He rarely drank, and drinking to the point of unconsciousness was something he hadn't done since his early days in Uni, which meant that it was far more logical to assume that he'd been drugged. 

The question was who might have done it? 

Sherlock purposely ignored his elder brother's mental eye roll of contempt and muttered _"really little brother? You were dehydrated, correspondingly thirsty and bored. Why not do the intelligent thing and check the alcohol content of the beverages you consumed, calculate the number consumed based on the amount of cash remaining in your wallet and compute that result over the time period you spent in the bar first before you jump to conclusions?"_ Instead he furrowed his brow in concentration as he shifted through the possible suspects. It seemed unlikely that a random stranger would have drugged him for no reason. Likewise for any of the Triple C's staff—at least, he didn't _think_ he'd antagonized any of them to that extent. Yet. The waitress was a dead end. The only person he'd spent any extended amount of time with was John Watson. 

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, trying to remember if he'd ever left his drink unattended in John's presence. Unfortunately, there was no way to tell for certain or not because the data was corrupted. Most of what happened last night was a blur with a few, fuzzy memories interspersed. Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock concentrated on assembling the assorted aches and pains of his transport into a coherent whole: his testes ached, but there wasn't any physical soreness elsewhere to indicate anything more...amorous...had happened. Sherlock gently prodded at his mouth with a forefinger. There was a small cut on the inside of his lower lip, like he'd bitten it at some point. They also felt slightly swollen and sensitive, as though they'd been abraded. He shifted, feeling the slightly tender skin on his shoulders and upper back and when he stretched, he felt the answering throb of slightly bruised muscles. A fight perhaps? Perhaps he'd been fallen (or been dropped) on his way to the barn? Maybe he'd stumbled into a wall at some point? 

"Scott, quit lollygagging and get a move on!" Owen Tredannick's voice boomed from down the aisle. "I know Hooper took pity on you, but we're leaving in forty! Move it!" 

Sherlock opened his eyes with a start and glared at his unseen tormentor, annoyed at having his thought-processes disrupted. It was aggravating that he didn't have enough data to draw accurate conclusions about what had (or hadn't) happened last night. His best option would be to see what he could overhear and observe John Watson for clues the next time he saw the vet. With one last glower in Owen's direction, Sherlock doffed his cowboy hat and went in search of his promised coffee. 

~*~

Sherlock's mood had still not improved two days later. His mental Mycroft had (unfortunately) been right. The beer he'd consumed so liberally had _not_ been two percent, as he'd assumed; it had been closer to six percent ABV. The memory of Victor harshly informing him that "To ASSUME makes an ASS out of U and ME," was enough to make him ill all over again. Dehydration and over-consumption had done the rest.

While it was a relief that he probably hadn't been drugged by John Watson, being responsible for his own hangover was somehow worse. He'd been subjected to an ongoing amount of ribbing by the Triple C's staff about both his choice of beer and his lack of alcohol tolerance. If the moniker 'Lightweight Bill' wasn't insulting enough, Cole Johnson had taken to calling him 'Regan' after some scene or character from a movie. What it had to do with Sherlock's vomiting fit, Sherlock had no idea, but it was annoying nonetheless, even if the rest of the staff seemed to consider it humorous. To add insult to injury, he'd also tripped over a hose and fallen while cleaning stalls at the fairgrounds. Only this time, there had been no John Watson standing by to doctor him with ice packs and sympathy. Molly had been kind enough to fetch him a fresh shirt, but the rest of the witnesses had cheerfully used it as fodder for more teasing. His only hope was that Mycroft wouldn't somehow find out about his self-inflicted misadventure. Mycroft would undoubtedly take it upon himself to hover around his little brother even more than he already did with his incessant efforts to safeguard Sherlock. The interfering git.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shook his head in an effort to block out the memories of Mycroft's past efforts at 'protecting' him. He sniffed once before refocusing his attention on the stallion on the other side of the fence. As he'd warned Ms. Ross, consistency in horse training was key. He had no doubt that Devil's Blaze had been taken care of, but it was equally clear that the stallion had been anything but complacent in his absence. According to Old Wayne, the stallion had resumed his habit of charging individuals approaching his pen, even though they'd followed Sherlock's strict instructions of not carrying large sticks or otherwise frightening the horse.

Even now, the stallion was watching him with the wariness that indicated that Sherlock was clearly back in the 'threat' category. It was so pronounced that he'd resumed the precaution of carrying the stun gun with him in case the stallion attacked.

Sherlock took a final deep breath, preparing to drop into the pen when his phone rang, the high-pitched tone cutting through the still air. 

_Dee dee deedle dee, dee dee deedle dee, dee dee deedle dee, dee dee deedle—_

Devil's Blaze whinnied and reared at the unfamiliar noise. With a frown, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared down at the screen, paying scant attention to the frightened horse that had begun running circles around the pen below him. The number flashing on the screen was unknown, but that was hardly unusual for new clients. Still, he didn't want to risk compromising his cover. 

Sherlock looked around. There was nobody nearby, except for Bonnie and she was hardly likely to—what was colloquialism he'd heard Molly use the other day? Oh yes, "spill the beans." Sherlock smirked privately to himself. He was looking forward to using the phrase at Mycroft's next soiree. Watching Mycroft's not-grimace at his younger brother's deliberately uncultured mannerisms would almost be worth the tedium of having to wear a tuxedo and feign inebriation while he eavesdropped for potentially useful gossip.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked brusquely in his normal voice, answering the call before the second ring cycle could begin.

There was a brief pause, followed by tentative "Hello? Um, this is John Watson. I'm trying to reach Billy Scott? I, er, got this number from Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock blinked and smiled, an illogical feeling of warmth suffusing him at John's voice. "John, hello," Sherlock replied, letting his voice slip back up into 'Billy's' softer cadence and timbre.

"Billy? That you?" John's voice was hesitant.

"Yes. Why?"

"Just...well, your voice sounded different, that's all."

"Sorry," Sherlock replied easily, "you caught me just as I was getting ready to start working with Devil's Blaze."

"Oh! Um, is...this a bad time?"

"Not at all," Sherlock said, tucking the phone between his right ear and shoulder and shifting so he could keep a better eye on the stallion. "I'm literally on the fence. What can I do for you?" Sherlock asked, adding a hint of flirtation to his question. 

"Well...I...I've got a favor to ask, but first, how's your head?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, you did get pretty wasted the other night at Ride 'Em. I was a bit worried about you, to be honest."

Sherlock forced himself to smile, knowing it would be conveyed in his voice. "Your concern is appreciated, but I'm fine. Thank you. Molly was kind enough to give me some water and painkillers. Aside from a bit of good-natured ribbing from the rest of the staff about being a lightweight, I survived relatively unscatched." 

"Good. That's good then," John said. Sherlock could almost imagine John nodding his head firmly, blond eyebrows creasing across his forehead in emphasis. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Mmm...indeed. So what's the favor?" Sherlock asked abruptly, bored with the pointless small talk. 

"Just...well…" There was the sound of a cough as John cleared his throat. "Sorry, it's a bit dusty in this barn. Uh, yeah. So I've got this client with a gelding that's suddenly started spooking and shying at everything. I've already eliminated the obvious suspects, like vision problems, poor-fitting tack or poisonous plants in the pasture. It's gotten so bad that the owner can't ride her horse anymore and she's worried she might have to put her gelding down for the safety of her husband's grandkids. I know that you're working for Candii Ross, but I was wondering if you had any ideas? Maybe give me some clue what I'm dealing with?" 

Sherlock pursed his lips. On the one hand, he had a case to solve. On the other, agreeing to John Watson's request for aid would be a fairly simple way to integrate himself further into the vet's good graces. "That depends. Can you give me some specific examples?"

"Hold on, let me ask." There was a muffled sound, like John had put his phone down. A few moments later, John returned. "You still there?"

"Yes."

"She said that last week when they went out riding, he—Colonel, that's the horse's name—spooked at something she couldn't see. He reared and slipped and fell."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, even though he knew John couldn't see him. "Mmm...what else?"

There was a mumble of voices and then John returned. "She said that Colonel has recently started spooking at random, harmless items, like blowing leaves and waving grass. She thought it might be because of a problem with his eyesight, but I'm not finding any evidence of a lesion or infection and my tests show his vision is fine, as far as I can tell, at least. So...er...yeah. I know that's not much to go on, but you have any ideas?"

"Eight so far," Sherlock replied, aware that Devil's Blaze had finally stopped running and was now watching him, his ears angled forward in curiosity. 

"Eight?!"

"Mmm...maybe four ideas," Sherlock revised, shifting to keep a better eye on the stallion. "Ask your client if Colonel is fed by weight or not."

"He is. She's been feeding him by weight for years. She's not stupid."

"Is he being fed by the same person?"

"Yes."

"Any recent dietary changes?"

"I already asked, and she said no. There hasn't been any obvious weight gain either."

"I see."

"Of course, that might also be because he's probably spent more time on two feet than four for the past week, when he's not running circles around the paddock."

"So he spends most of his time outside?" 

"Yes."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock murmured, busily sorting the supplied information against his extensive network of mental files. 

"This may be a long shot," John added in an undertone, "but I was wondering, do you think this might possibly be related to what's affecting Devil's Blaze?" 

Sherlock paused in his mental comparisons and pursed his lips. That was a suspicion that hadn't even crossed his mind. "Mmmm...perhaps," he said slowly, mentally chastising himself for overlooking the obvious. "Is your client involved in rodeos at all?"

"No. She rides dressage."

"Has she ridden Colonel at any events at the Tri-State Fairgrounds in Amarillo recently?"

There was a soft murmur of voices before John returned. "Ah, that would be a no," he supplied. "She's been riding him at home." 

"Mmm...then in that case, no. I strongly suspect something else as being the culprit," Sherlock said firmly. "I'd have to see the horse to make a final determination, however. I don't want to give you a supposition without corroborating evidence."

"Ah...right. That makes sense." John blew out a breath. Sherlock could almost imagine him rubbing the back of his neck and licking his lips. "I...er...know you're busy, but do you think you might have time at some point to take a quick look? I'd really appreciate it. " 

Sherlock glanced over at Devil's Blaze, silently reading the stallion's mood. "I can't do it this afternoon…" Sherlock said slowly, deliberately putting hesitance in his voice, "but perhaps later this evening? I could meet you in town?"

"Yeah. I can do that. There's a gas station near the turnoff for Palo Duro Canyon. Exit 217, I believe. Meet me there around six? Or, if you like I could pick you up at the Triple C and take you to the ranch from there. What works best for you?"

"I'll meet you at the gas station," Sherlock replied quickly. John's suggested time would allow him to skip the chatter of the evening meal. Better yet, it was late enough that his departure wouldn't raise any eyebrows. He'd already noted that nobody cared if the ranch staff left the ranch for a bit, as long as the chores were done first. The offsite location would give him a chance to meet with John away from prying eyes. Assuming John hadn't already eaten, he could probably convince John to have dinner with him afterwards. It he was successful in his manipulations, it could even lead to him having the opportunity to drug John and possibly hack his laptop, or at least scope out John's residence for future break-ins.

"No problem. I'll see you then," John agreed. Sherlock could hear the relief in his voice. "Oh," John added abruptly, before Sherlock could hang up. "Let me give you my cell number in case something comes up and you need to call me. Do you have a pen handy?"

"I do," Sherlock replied, deciding not to point out that he could simply save the number John had called him from in his phone. It was possible John was calling on his client's line. "Just give me a tick." He hopped off the fence and pulled the moleskin and biro he kept in his back pocket free. "Go ahead," Sherlock ordered, carefully writing down the string of numbers that John rattled off. Bonnie, meanwhile, had abandoned her shady spot and was standing on the ground underneath him. The collie had her ear perked forward and was watching him with the canine equivalent of a puzzled expression. "Got it. I'll see you in a few hours. Goodbye, John." Sherlock waited until John had hung up before narrowing his eyes and returning Bonnie's intent look. "What do you want?" Sherlock demanded, letting his voice return to its natural cadence and register.

The collie gave him an unimpressed look before rolling over and silently demanding that Sherlock pet her belly.

"And why am I even arguing with a dog?" Sherlock scolded himself as he bent down to comply. "It's not as if you can even comprehend English, let alone answer me. At least Billy the Skull doesn't demand belly rubs in exchange for listening to me speak." Sherlock gave Bonnie a final, vigorous scratch before straightening up, trying not to groan at the ache in his knees and back. He had several more hours of work to get done before John arrived.

~*~

"Thanks again for agreeing to do this this," John said later that evening as Sherock climbed into the Humvee. He licked his lips, leaving a thin film of saliva on the lower one. "I know it's a lot, especially since you've probably put a full day in with Blaze as it is."

"Hardly," Sherlock said with a shrug as he pulled the seatbelt across his chest and fastened it, his eyes noting John's muddy jeans and the dried sweat stains on the neckline of the tee-shirt John wore underneath his chambray overshirt. John had recently applied cologne—likely in a bid to make himself smell more presentable—but the spicy, artificial scent did little to disguise the tang of sweat, dust and worse that permeated the close air of the Humvee's cabin. 

Interestingly enough, John's body language contradicted his attire. Instead of flirting or seduction, Sherlock could read tension, perhaps even guilt in the lines of John's shoulders and back. The way John kept licking his lips indicated nervousness, not arousal. The question was what was John feeling guilty about? Was he wrong in his deduction that John hadn't adulterated his beer after all? It was extremely aggravating that he couldn't recall anything but the vaguest of memories about what had happened at the bar on Sunday night.

"You're forgetting, I've worked with him too," John argued, apparently oblivious to Sherlock's thoughts. "That stallion is a handful—don't downplay yourself."

Sherlock forced himself to focus on John's words. If John was guilty of something, he'd be far more likely to let it slip if he felt relaxed. According, Sherlock tilted his head to one side and gave John a hesitant smile. "I'm not. He's hardly the most challenging horse I've dealt with. Besides, aren't there 'Good Samaritan' laws about medical professionals being required to render aid to those in need in the event of an emergency or disaster?"

"So Mike has told me, yeah, starting with the Hippocratic Oath. He's got some stories about the places he was stationed when he was working for Doctors Without Borders. But those laws are intended for doctors treating human patients," John pointed out dryly as he re-buckled his own seat belt and tightened it across his chest.

"The species is irrelevant," Sherlock retorted waving a dismissive hand, glancing out of the corner of one eye to gauge how John was responding to his words. John's body language was far less flirtatious than it had been on prior occasions, but he didn't know why. It seemed unlikely that it would be strictly because he was focused on a case. Even when he'd been helping Sherlock cool down Devil's Blaze, John had managed to communicate and impressive amount of innuendo with his eyebrows and the quirk of his lips alone. A mystery then. "As a veterinarian, I am certain that you have encountered any number of human clients that view their pets as full members of the family, deserving of full medical care, regardless of the expense," Sherlock continued, not letting a trace of his inner thoughts appear on his face. Often the best way to get answers was to pretend like nothing was out of the ordinary. The desire to be seen as 'clever' was often the undoing of amateur criminals.

"Yeah. I have," John said with a sigh. "And sometimes cases where people can't." A troubled frown flickered his face, tinged with no small amount of bitterness.

"John?"

"It's nothing. Just old memories," John replied evasively, smoothing his face back into its normal, affable expression as he turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, trying to deduce what John was hiding. It was something significant, that was certain...something far more personal than a simple professional incident. Something that had happened in John's childhood? He would have to investigate later.

"Regardless," Sherlock continued, as if John's non-answer was nothing to him. "I would be remiss in not investigating on the off chance that your suspicion is correct and this is somehow related to whatever is causing Devil's Blaze's behavior. So go on, remind what all you've checked for?"

"Well, first I looked for signs of a sore back," John began as he merged onto the motorway and began driving them to their destination. 

Sherlock listened with a half-ear, occasionally interrupting for clarification as John ran through the litany of tests he ordered and solutions he'd already tried, and nodding his approval. Whatever else John Watson might be, he was undeniably a very good vet. There were any number of things that could cause a horse to suddenly act out and John had already investigated the obvious ones: colic, contaminated feed, a poor fitting saddle and painful feet. So far though, none of the information that John relayed contradicted his initial hunch that the problem was related to recent changes in Colonel's diet.

Now he just needed to confirm it.

"—and she said it really got bad after her husband's grandkids came to stay with her for the summer. She had some thoughts of teaching them to ride, but not with Colonel acting unpredictable," John concluded as he turned into a driveway and stopped in front of a large house. "Here we are," John added unnecessarily as he scrambled out of the truck. 

Sherlock nodded and unbuckled his own seatbelt, one eye already studying the property in front of him. The house was large and well kept, with an attached double garage out front. The front yard was shaded by several moderately-sized, drought-tolerant trees. The pavement portion of the driveway had been decorated by childish chalk drawings depicting what was probably intended to be horses and people riding them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, noting the badly-worn plush stick-horse, jump rope and brightly-coloured toy six-shooter lying in the yard off to one side, like their owner had been abruptly called away, but fully intended to return later. 

A well-dressed woman, clearly alerted to their presence by the sound of truck wheels on gravel stepped out on the porch to meet them. Her head was tilted to one side like a bird, clearly appraising them. After a moment, she walked down the shallow steps to meet them. "Hello Doctor Watson," she greeted them in a surprisingly deep and husky voice.

"Hello Mrs. Porter," John said, tipping his hat politely, his posture military straight. "Mrs. Porter, I'd like you to meet a professional colleague of mine, Mr. Billy Scott. He's the equestrian behavioral expert I told you about. Billy, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Porter. She's the owner of the horse I contacted you about." 

"Mrs. Porter," Sherlock murmured, shaking her hand politely while mentally sizing her up. She was a petite, older woman. Her dark hair had been professionally highlighted and she wore it in a fashionable bob that highlighted her rather astonishing cheekbones. Her clothing was moderately expensive and well-kept, which was consistent with the size of the house and the general appearance of the property. Her handshake was also quite firm, though not crushing. _So,_ Sherlock decided, _a professional woman, judging by the expertise of her makeup. Possibly retired, certainly still active in some occupation or organization that required professional dress and someone clearly used to holding her own against men._

"Mr. Scott," she returned politely. "I appreciate you coming out on such short notice."

"Not at all. I'm always glad to help a colleague out. What can you tell me about Colonel? Doctor Watson gave me the basic details, but I'd like to hear it from you."

Mrs. Porter pursed her lips in thought. "Well, I've had him for a long time, so I think I have a good grasp on his behavior. He's not the most laid-back of horses, but he behaves well when ridden and is good at following directions. That's why I use him for dressage."

"Tell me about his diet."

"He gets fed a ration of hay grass and a handful of whole oats daily. When we're training for competition, he gets some alfalfa and sweet feed mixed in with his usual ration."

"Who feeds him?"

"I do."

"Does anybody else?"

"No."

Sherlock nodded slowly, indicating his understanding. "Show me where the feed is kept," he ordered.

Mrs. Porter blinked in response to Sherlock's demanding tone and slid a skeptical look at John, who gave her a miniscule shrug in response. "Alright, this way, Mr. Scott," Mrs. Porter said, leading them around the side of the house and towards a wooden 10'x16' structure with an attached lean-to. A good-sized paddock stood at one end, containing a well-cared-for, dark bay quarter horse. The horse snorted at the humans' approach and took off around the paddock at a good clip. Sherlock spent a moment observing the gelding's excellent conformation before turning his attention back to Mrs. Porter.

"Do you keep this door locked?" Sherlock asked, indicating the small stable door Mrs. Porter had just opened.

Mrs. Porter shook her head. "Not during the day. I like being able to get into it easily for my tools and tack."

Sherlock twitched an eyebrow in acknowledgement before stepping through the open door that Mrs. Porter politely held open. He began prowling around the small space, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he ran his gaze over the building's interior. One side of the building contained a single horse stall, while the room he was standing in was clearly devoted to storage. A combination of wooden walls and stout iron bars separated the two spaces. Tack was neatly arranged around the room on wall-mounted shelves and hooks. A small, unfolded stepladder stood nearby. Stout, squat, plastic lidded bins containing different types of grain were arranged along one wall, positioned conveniently close to the stall. Two wooden pallets held bales of hay. A net attached to a scale hung nearby, mute evidence to Mrs. Porter's assertion that she weighed her horse's meals. Sherlock reached out and tested the lids of the bins. They weren't locked, nor were they particularly heavy. The first bin contained plain whole oats and was about half-full. The second contained sweet feed. A measuring cup hung on the outside of each bin for portion control purposes. Sherlock sniffed the sweet feed cautiously and took a sample out to taste: rolled corn, oats and molasses. Reaching down, he touched his fingertips to the sweet feed scoop. The surface was faintly tacky, and there was a corresponding ring around the inside of the bucket, marking where the level of grain had rapidly fallen. 

"Do you feed your horse sweet feed often?" Sherlock asked, turning to look over his shoulder at where Mrs. Porter was patiently waiting.

"Not too often. As I already told Doc Watson, I use it mostly as a treat."

"Have you fed him any recently?"

Mrs. Porter furrowed her brow in concentration. "I think the last time he got some was around ten days ago."

"I see," Sherlock murmured, slotting the information into his mental timeline. He crouched down to tug lightly at one of the bales of alfalfa. Sherlock frowned. Several strands of hay came away easily, evidence that somebody had been messing with the hay.

"Do you see something, Billy?" John asked from behind him, stooping down to peer at what Sherlock was holding. 

"Maybe," Sherlock said vaguely, dropping the hay to the floor. He stood up, dusting his hands off as he stepped forward to study the wall separating the stall from the storage side. "I need to examine the paddock fence," Sherlock announced abruptly as his eye fell on several significant scuff marks. He stalked outside, vaguely missing the dramatic swirl of his beloved Belstaff, even though the current Texas heat would make wearing it...inadvisable.

"Okay…?" John replied, the question obvious in his tone. He followed Sherlock back out to the paddock and watched with a bemused expression on his face as Sherlock began examining the bottom rail of the fence and the grass just outside of the paddock with his sliding magnifier.

"So...what's he doing?" Sherlock heard Mrs. Porter ask in an undertone. The older woman's voice was rife with skepticism. Sherlock ignored it. She was hardly the first idiot to question his methods.

"Looking for clues," John replied, immediately coming to his defense. "Don't worry. He's a professional. I've seen him work. He knows what he's doing."

Sherlock smiled in satisfaction as he spotted what he was looking for. Trampled down grass, an almost bare patch just outside the paddock, and a small, sticky handprint pressed against the bottom rail of the fence. A few, tiny, glinting crystals glimmered in the dry dirt. He dampened the tip of his right forefinger and picked a few of them up before touching them to his tongue. As he expected, there was a trace of sweetness mixed with the mineral taste of the dirt. With a smirk, Sherlock snapped his magnifier shut and spun to his feet. "John mentioned you had grandchildren, Mrs. Porter?" 

"I do," the woman agreed. "Three of them. Two boys and a girl."

"What are their ages? Trust me, it's relevant," Sherlock added in response to the skeptical look he received in return.

"Jessie's fifteen, Grant's thirteen and Teddy's three, almost four."

"Are any of them especially fond of horses?"

Mrs. Porter shook her head. "Only Teddy. He keeps sayin' he wants to be a cowboy when he grows up. The other two are too busy with their gadgets to bother learning how to ride."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "Do they watch Teddy when you or your husband aren't here?"

"Yes. Why?" 

Sherlock slotted the information into his head, his mind already building up the most likely scenario. Young child, ignored by older siblings, unsupervised by responsible adults, taking solace in horses. Not an unfamiliar story, but fortunately, (or perhaps unfortunately), not his own. He'd been pushed and lectured and forced into countless hours of practice riding by his maternal progenitor. Mycroft, meanwhile, behaved as though Sherlock was determined to kill himself and had undertaken it as his solemn duty as Sherlock's elder brother to corral Sherlock's natural curiosity and thirst for adrenaline. Not an unreasonable assumption, Sherlock could grudgingly admit. Especially in light of some of his more...risky pastimes, but it was still one he resented. "I also take it that Teddy has accompanied you when you feed Colonel?" Sherlock asked, pulling himself back to the present. The question was mostly to confirm the final pieces of his theory.

"He has."

"Did he enjoy himself?" 

"I'm sure he did, since he's asked me a few other times if he can give my 'horsie' carrots."

"'Horsie' or 'my horsie'?" Sherlock demanded.

"'My horsie' probably, knowing him. Toddlers think everything is theirs," Mrs. Porter snapped, even as she lowered her chin and crossed her arms aggressively. "But I want know why you so interested in my grandkids anyway? What does this have to do with Colonel acting crazy?"

Sherlock gave her a thin smile. "Because, Mrs. Porter, Colonel's behavior changes are due to the fact that Teddy's been overfeeding him."

Mrs. Porter blinked, clearly stunned by Sherlock's statement. John, Sherlock noted, also had a puzzled expression on his face.

"What?! But how?!" Mrs. Porter demanded a moment later. "He's just a child!"

Sherlock's lips twisted in wry amusement. Of all the Achilles' heels adults suffered from, assuming that children were stupid was by far the most common. And most idiotic. "You shouldn't underestimate a child because of their age," Sherlock scolded, not missing John's quickly suppressed smirk of agreement from out the corner of his eye. "When I was four, I managed to get my mother's hottest dressage prospect out of his stall singlehandedly and rode him bareback around a field until I got caught by my overbearing and overprotective older brother. The average three-year-old is perfectly capable of opening a door and feeding treats to a horse once he or she has seen an adult do it. Look," Sherlock ordered, indicating the almost bare patch of ground beside the fence. "The grass is almost gone, because the horse was trying to get at the sweet feed and other items Teddy was no doubt dropping there. There is a child-sized, sticky handprint on the fence. If you look at the sweet feed bucket inside your barn, you will notice that the level is far lower than one would expect for a horse only being given occasional scoops of sweet feed. There is also a corresponding ring marking where the sweet feed level was a week ago. The bales of alfalfa are loose where Teddy has been pulling handfuls of hay out. Why do I suspect Teddy, you might ask? Because he is the only new individual on the property who is both horse-obsessed and young enough to not know any better. You, yourself said that Teddy referred to Colonel as 'my horsie'. Almost every child has seen—or at least heard—about horses eating carrots, apples and sugar cubes. If these items aren't easily accessible in your home, it's not surprising that Teddy would remember what you fed Colonel. You probably even offhandedly mentioned sweet feed and alfalfa being a special treat while showing Teddy how to feed Colonel. The time frame is also a factor. Doctor Watson wasn't able to find a medical reason for Colonel's sudden change in behavior, but it is an established fact that overfeeding a horse and giving them an insufficient outlet for the energy can result in sudden, undesirable behavioral changes."

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed as he shook his head, his admiration apparent.

Sherlock blinked and shrugged to cover the sudden heat in his cheeks. "It's elementary. Lock the barn," he ordered, turning to address Mrs. Porter. "Explain to Teddy that giving a horse too many sweets isn't healthy for him. Make sure that Colonel eats only his regular rations and see how he behaves in a week."

Mrs. Porter nodded her understanding, still looking slightly dazed by Sherlock's deduction.

"So...how did you know it was the feed and not...something else?" John asked as they slowly walked back to John's truck a half hour later.

"I run into a surprising number of cases where people overfeed their horses and then complain about their animal suddenly acting nervous and aggressive," Sherlock explained, tucking the cheque that Mrs. Porter had written him into a back pocket. "Consequently, it's one of the first things I look for," Sherlock continued with a shrug. "Especially if the veterinarian is competent and hasn't found an obvious medical cause for the behavioral change. There was a case I handled a few years ago—not particularly challenging one I'll admit, but it rather exemplifies the scenario." 

John tilted his head, inviting Sherlock to continue.

"A preteen fell in love with a particular horse at a junior riding camp. She convinced her parents to buy the horse for her and have him moved to her family's country house. A few months later, her parents contacted me, because the girl's previously sweet-tempered and obedient horse was uncontrollable. She couldn't ride him, but she begged her parents not to sell him either."

"So what did you do?"

"I first explained to her that she was overfeeding her horse by feeding him alfalfa and sweet feed instead of oats and grass and that he needed more exercise than an hour of turnout once a day."

"Did that fix the problem?"

"No. Because people are idiots."

John raised both eyebrows. "I...take it she didn't follow the instructions?"

Sherlock shook his head.

John pursed his lips, clearly thinking about the situation. After a moment, he slid Sherlock a sideways gaze. "So...what did you do?"

"Her parents called me back a month later, saying they were desperate. I had the horse transported to my ranch—" he just barely managed to avoid saying 'estate' "—where I gradually switched him back to a lower protein diet and made sure he and I spent spent hours hacking."

"Hacking?" John asked, giving Sherlock a puzzled look.

Sherlock blinked, and mentally cursed himself for the slip-up. "Trail riding," he translated.

"Ah. Did it fix the problem?"

"It did. By the time the owner and her parents picked her horse up two months later, he'd lost the excess weight and was quite calm. I got an email two days later, thanking me for returning Stardust back to his sweet-tempered self." He'd also made a pretty penny off of the family; enough to send Mrs. Hudson on a three-week holiday to the Caribbean as an apology for the damage he did to her floors with his horseshoe experiment. "Considering that your client had high-energy feed available, but knew the proper nutrition needs based on her horse's current exercise level, it was a fairly straightforward deduction to make."

John nodded his comprehension as they continued to walk, his steps keeping time with Sherlock's own. "That makes sense, though certainly wouldn't have thought of that," John commented, turning his head to look at Sherlock. 

Sherlock give him a quizzical look. "Surely you know the importance of a horse's diet on their performance? I can't imagine you being that stupid, a qualified veterinarian such as yourself?"

"Dick," John huffed, giving Sherlock a mock glower. "What I mean is, yeah, I know to ask the owner about sudden dietary changes—I did, in fact—but I never would have thought to look past that and finger a horse-loving grandkid sneaking 'his' new horsie treats as the culprit." 

"And that's why I'm a Consulting Equestrian Expert, and you aren't." Sherlock replied airily. 

"A humble one too!" John retorted sarcastically, the smile in his voice blunting the sting of his words. Still grinning, John gave Sherlock a friendly nudge with his shoulder. 

Sherlock nudged him back, firmly ignoring the tingles that seemed to run down his arm from his brief contact with John's shoulder. "Speaking of food and eating, are you hungry?" Sherlock asked. "I was so caught up working with Devil's Blaze, I ignored the dinner bell."

"Billy," John scolded. "You have to eat! I already told you you can't live on coffee alone!"

"I know that John," Sherlock replied, deliberately rolling his eyes. "That's why I'm asking if you'd care to join me."

"Well sure," John agreed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I'll even buy your meal as a 'thank you' for, you know helping me out with Mrs. Porter."

"No need," Sherlock said immediately. "I invited you, I'll pay."

John frowned. "I owe you a favor, Billy. It's the least I can do since I apparently kept you from eating earlier."

Pride. Pride coupled with self-consciousness and an ingrained sense of fairness, Sherlock observed, easily recognizing the tells. Useful, but also inconvenient. "How about you buy the next one?" Sherlock asked, purposely biting his lower lip and widening his eyes almost imperceptibly as he gave John an out.

"Yeah. Okay," John agreed, his shoulders relaxing. "We'll do that, then. So..uh...what sounds good?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You know the restaurants around here better than I do. What do you recommend?"

John removed his cowboy hat and rubbed at the back of the neck, a flush darkening his cheeks and throat. "We could do a restaurant, if you really wanted to, but I'm er, kinda filthy. Plus, I don't smell that great," John said self-deprecatingly, gesturing at his muddy jeans. "There's a couple of good food trucks around here. How would you feel about grabbing something to go and then taking it to a park to eat? Or, if you don't mind a detour, we could swing by my place and I could do a quick rinse-off and we could go to dinner afterwards?"

Sherlock purposely bit his lower lip. "What about…" he began, making his voice tenative as suited his current character. "What if—instead of going out—we grabbed something to go and took it back to your place to eat? That way you could still get your shower and we could have dinner together in privacy?" Sherlock asked, ending the suggestion with an upward lilt that made it into a question, rather than a firm suggestion.

John blinked, clearly startled by the suggestion. He pressed his lips together, visibly steeling himself. "We could…" he began slowly, "but my place isn't exactly fancy. It's...pretty small, to be honest. Are you sure you don't mind?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock replied, returning John's hesitant smile with one of his own. "I'd love to see your place and the idea of spending time together in private sounds very appealing. Perhaps we could watch a movie on the sofa?"

John visibly relaxed, a wide smile creasing his face, as if he couldn't believe his luck. "Sure! That sounds like a great suggestion, actually. What sounds good?" 

"Something light...something flavorful."

John nodded, pursing his lips as he pulled out his phone. He tapped a few keys and studied the screen. "Well 'Pitchfork Kitchen' does sandwiches...um 'Smokin' Greens' does salads and kabobs. There's also 'The Loaded Bowl,' which is a new vegan place I've heard good things about. 'Taste of Seoul' specializes in egg rolls, guk and banchan...if you like Korean food, that is. If you like Indian, it looks like 'Sizzle N Spice' is parked downtown tonight. They do a pretty good veggie curry, pakora—that's vegetables fried in chickpea batter—and kabobs. If any of these are too adventurous though, let me know. I'm not sure how much international cuisine you've had a chance to try in rural Montana."

"I appreciate your sensitivities, John, but my culinary palette is far more continental than you're giving me credit for," Sherlock replied dryly. "Yes I'm from Montana, but I _have_ traveled extensively. Indian sounds fine."

"Ahhh...right," John said, blushing. "Let's go to 'Sizzle N Spice'."

~*~

"...I can't believe you did that! And he didn't have you arrested for trespassing?" John demanded, looking away from the road long enough to address Sherlock.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and affected a droll tone designed to make John laugh. "Well, he couldn't really, considering that he was breaking the restraining order by being there himself," he drawled. "I'm sure he would have done worse...if I hadn't temporarily blinded him with a bottle of his own, overpriced aerosol deodorant and then used my lighter to turn said deodorant into a flamethrower, which I used to set the wastebasket on fire, thereby activating the automatic fire suppression system and simultaneously alerting the authorities while I made my escape out the window."

John blinked twice and then burst into delighted giggles. "Jesus Christ, Billy! You're a menace!" John exclaimed, pulling into a dilapidated carpark whose address Sherlock recognized from Anthea's files. John parked the Humvee before collapsing against the seat, still shaking with laughter. "Where were you when I was trying not to die of boredom in high school?"

John's giggle was infectious and Sherlock found himself joining in. It was strange, and yet oddly satisfying to laugh _with_ somebody, rather than be laughed _at_ by somebody. He looked over at John, enjoying the way that John's nose crinkled and admiring the strong line of his throat as John tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. Unfortunately, his musings were cut short when his stomach gave an audible growl.

"Come on, you madman," John said with a grin, shaking his head and rubbing a hand across his streaming eyes. "Let's get you fed."

John led them down a narrow staircase to a door marked '211C'. With a last, hesitant look at Sherlock, John unlocked the door, revealing a tiny, studio flat. 

Sherlock fought not to cough at the stuffy, musty air as he stepped through the doorway. The one-room flat—an efficiency, if he remembered the American term correctly—was horrible. Everything in the space was done in different shades of industrial beige. The walls, the carpet, the painted trim, the tiny curtain covering an even tinier window, the light fixtures, the cabinets and even the countertops of the kitchen. A low half-wall subdivided the 'kitchen' area from the main room, while an L-shaped, ceiling-mounted, hospital-style curtain track enclosed another corner to create a 'bedroom'. The majority of the furniture he could see was cheap, blond or white-painted particleboard trash, the sort of item that could be readily purchased from b&m. In fact, the only splash of colour in the entire flat was the rather battered, red-upholstered armchair sitting in front of a small television that was resting on a rather sad-looking entertainment center. There were no personal touches to indicate what type of person lived here. No pictures, no trinkets, no skulls, no random articles of clothing draped over the furniture. Sherlock could see a pile of envelopes and papers lying on the desk, but that was the only exception to the space's ruthless cleanliness—military holdover, perhaps?

"Are you sure this is okay, Billy?" John asked, watching Sherlock closely, apprehension rife in his tone. John's posture was military straight and his chin was up, a pose Sherlock had learned to decipher as John feeling acutely uncomfortable. "There are picnic tables in the common area if you'd rather eat outside—"

"It's fine John," Sherlock said soothingly. "It's—" Sherlock paused for a moment, trying to think of a polite word that Mrs. Hudson would use to describe the tiny space. "—cozy. Very intimate. Now go take your shower so we can eat. I'm starving," he added, dropping his voice and incorporating just the faintest hint of a leer into his suggestion.

"Uh...right. Okay. Just...uh...make yourself at home," John ordered, indicating the red chair, his posture still oddly formal. "I'm going to grab that shower," John continued, jerking his thumb in the direction of the flat's only other door. "I'll...um...be back in a tick," he announced unnecessarily before ducking into the curtained-off corner. 

Sherlock heard the scrape and thump of a wooden drawer opening and closing, followed by the rattle of metal hangers on a metal curtain rod. John reappeared, a fresh pair of jeans and shirt clutched tightly under one arm. He gave Sherlock a hesitant smile and vanished into the bath. A moment later, Sherlock heard the sound of water falling. _Finally._ Satisfied that John was going to be preoccupied for the next few minutes, Sherlock turned his attention to investigating the small space.

His first target was the L-shaped kitchen area since it was closest. The corner contained a minuscule refrigerator, cooktop and sink. A small plastic folding table was pushed against the half-wall, with a single metal folding chair beside it. The table clearly served the dual purpose of both a desk and an eating surface because there was a small stack of unopened mail resting on top. There was a computer charging cord plugged into the wall, but the laptop it was supposed to be attached to was absent. No matter. He was hardly prepared to drug John tonight as it was. Curious, Sherlock picked up the envelopes and studied the return addresses. _Sallie Mae, Citizens Bank...a few utility bills...something from a professional veterinary association...dull._ It was tempting to slit open the sealed envelopes, but there was a faint chance that John might remember which mail he had and hadn't opened. Sherlock reluctantly returned the envelopes to their exact position—John probably wasn't as observant as Mycroft was, but there was no point in taking any chances—and began to explore the rest of the kitchen.

Wall-mounted shelves and cabinets opened to reveal a mismatched assortment of crockery and tinned foods. The refrigerator contained nothing that Sherlock would consider of interest. No body parts, no temperature-sensitive medications, no illicit drugs. There was a gallon-sized glass jar full of some sort of tan liquid, some Tupperware containers of beans and rice, a bag of cheese, a half-carton of eggs, a bottle of soy sauce, some vegetables and a mostly-full carton of milk. A cardboard carrier contained an assortment of mismatched beer bottles sat in the doorway. Curious, Sherlock pulled one free to study the label. Knowing what sorts of beers John preferred would make it easier for him to plan his future seduction-and-drugging campaign. The labels, unfortunately, were home-made—albeit designed by somebody with some skill in graphics design—and the names were all terrible puns: 'Tart of Darkness,' 'Hoppy Ending, 'Alphaphylactic Hop, and 'Modus Hoperandi'. No help there. 

With an impatient sigh, Sherlock shut the refrigerator and moved towards the curtained sleeping area. He paused long enough to make sure the shower was still running before he pushed the curtain aside, only to grimace at the sight that met his eyes. The single, twin-sized bed was made with military precision, but covered with the most appalling duvet he'd ever seen: cream and patterned in brown like the spots of a Guernsey or an Ayrshire dairy cow. A two-layer nightstand sat beside the bed, its top taken up by a cheap goose-neck lamp, a battery-powered alarm clock and a paperback book bearing the sticker of a local library. There was no door leading to a closet. Instead, storage was provided by wooden dresser standing at the foot of the bed and the rolling, double-bar clothing rack pushed perpendicular against the wall.

Giving into temptation, Sherlock leaned forward and sniffed at the row of neatly hung up shirts and jeans. Cheap laundry detergent was the primary scent, but he could also detect traces of cologne and sweat. Apparently, John was one of those people who re-wore clothes before washing them if they weren't terribly dirty. Sherlock drummed the fingers of his left hand against his thigh as he tried to determine the underlying reason. Was it due to thrift, since the lack of a washing machine in the flat meant John probably did his washing at a launderette? Or was it the sign of an overworked man with limited time for chores? He needed to examine John's finances to know for certain. A quick check underneath the bed revealed a row of locked military footlockers. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. The shower was still running, so he ducked underneath the bed to examine them more closely.

The locks were combination-based. Each had four digits, so each lock in theory had ten thousand possible combinations, but some of the numbers were more worn than others. Figuring out the solutions would be a fairly simple matter, given sufficient time. The sound of the water cut off and was replaced a moment later by the rattle of the shower curtain. With a disgruntled sigh, Sherlock slid back out and pushed himself to his feet, double-checking to make sure that there were no tell-tale tracks in the cheap carpet. It wouldn't do for John to catch him snooping. He turned, fully intending to move to the kitchen and begin dishing up their food, but his attention was caught by the sight of the closed drawer in the entertainment center. The drawer was deep, certainly large enough to contain files or a laptop. He glanced at the bathroom door. It was still tightly shut and judging by the rustling sounds, John was probably either toweling off or getting dressed. Deciding to risk it, Sherlock pulled the drawer open.

It didn't contain the expected files, or laptop, or even a selection of movie cases. Instead, the drawer contained an antique, black, coffin-style instrument case. Sherlock bit his lip. Hard. By its size and shape, the case almost certainly contained a violin and Sherlock's fingers itched to take it out and place it under his chin. He missed his own instrument. It had been months since he'd had the opportunity to play and it was like a mental twinge he couldn't alleviate. After a moment of struggling with the temptation to touch or not to touch, Sherlock gave in and opened the case.

John _had_ said he could make himself at home.

"Oh, Sherlock murmured, looking at the violin inside, "now that is very fine." Reverently, Sherlock reached in and brushed his fingers gently along the polished wood, before carefully picking the violin up to examine it. The movement revealed several pieces of handwritten sheet music that had been tucked into the bottom of the case. The fragility of the paper and the crabbed shape of the handwriting identified them as being old—probably the work of the violin's previous owner, Sherlock decided. He spent a few moments studying the run of notes. The top piece was a waltz titled 'Anna,' an original composition most likely. The next piece was some sort of lament titled 'James'. The third sheet was a lullaby in 6/8 time titled 'Johnny Boy'. There were a few other pieces too. Some named, some not. None of the songs were especially technically complex—certainly not when compared to works by Massenet or Schubert. In fact, they reminded Sherlock nothing so much as some of the traditional Irish instrumentals he'd heard in a pub in Doolin years ago while there on a case. The songs took most of their beauty from the skill, mood and the improvisations of the musician playing them at the time, rather than the notes inscribed on the page. Sherlock sniffed. _Dull._ He returned the music to the case and refocused his attention on the violin he held. 

It wasn't sentiment, per se, but any living instrument—an instrument that was played regularly with great love—picked up a certain gravitas or energy or 'feel'. Some might attribute it to lingering psychic impressions left by the owner, (or former owner, in some cases; some instruments—the ones that were actively being played—could be hundreds of years old), Sherlock wasn't given to such mystic flights of fancy, but he could read the signs. Every time he picked up his beloved Guarneri, he was reminded of just how much Mr. Mancini had loved the violin he had once described to Sherlock as "his most faithful and adored wife, mistress and companion." 

This violin had been very, very loved indeed.

The instrument was old, so old that the back was carved from a single piece of wood, rather than two halves glued together. There were little chips and nicks on the edges of the upper and lower bouts where the instrument had been knocked against something, or where the varnish had been chipped away. The varnish wear pattern on the back indicated that the instrument had never seen a proper shoulder rest. Most of the varnish was also missing from the back of the violin's neck. It was a sign of a musician allowing the neck to rest in the valley between their thumb and forefinger, instead of properly holding the instrument in place with their chin and shoulder rest the way a classically trained musician would. There was a small crack on the soundboard, near one of the F-holes that had been repaired at some point in the past with wood glue—an amateur repair, not a professional one, but it had been so carefully done, it was almost invisible. 

Turning the violin over, Sherlock began to examine the strings, tuning pegs and fingerboard. The fingerboard was a solid piece of ebony, decorated with an inlayed thistle in mother-of-pearl. Despite the natural hardness of the wood, Sherlock could feel faint divots underneath the first and second positions of the A and D strings as he ran his fingers over the violin's neck. The divots were also concentrated at the upper end of the neck, so a musician who practiced and performed in standard keys. 

The violin's tailpiece was carved with thistles surrounding a tiny shield. Sherlock pulled his magnifier out to examine it more closely. The carvings were badly worn, but he could make out the shapes of birds and maybe a crescent moon. He shut his eyes briefly, running through the tedious mental archive of different European family crests that Mummy had forced him to memorize—it had been a stepping stone to memorizing thousands of famous horse pedigrees. The combination of birds and lunar bodies wasn't one he immediately recognized, but based on the location and the owner, it was probably safe to assume that it was somehow related to the Watson family.

Sherlock returned his magnifier to his pocket and held the instrument up higher to study the play of light over the varnish. It was clear that the violin was no longer played. There was no rosin-dust marring the mirror-bright finish and the hairs on the bow were brittle and frayed. The polishing cloth was likewise clean. Despite that, it was clear that the violin had been carefully kept, Sherlock noted as he ran a forefinger over the strings, testing the notes. They were flat, just as he expected: the pitch indicated an instrument that had been deliberately detuned to avoid placing unnecessary strain on the neck, but not slackened enough to risk dislodging the violin's sound post. The brass fine tuners were shiny gold. There was even a barely-used cake of rosin wrapped in a cloth in a small compartment that contained a few spare strings.

Sherlock pursed his lips, putting the pieces together. Amateur or self-taught musician, extensively played instrument that was at least a hundred and fifty years old, if not more. A family heirloom then. A highly valued and extremely personal one too, since John kept it tucked into a drawer and hidden away from casual sight. 

"My grandfather's," John said from behind him, "and his before that." Sherlock startled, almost dropping the violin. He hadn't even heard John leave the bathroom, so caught up had he been in studying the instrument. John's hands darted out instinctively to catch the violin. The touch of his skin was almost scorching-hot where his hands brushed against Sherlock's to cradle the instrument.

"Bit not good, snooping through a person's things," John said mildly as he reclaimed the violin. 

"Sorry. I'm sorry," Sherlock stammered, his embarrassment only half-feigned as he reluctantly surrendered the instrument to John. "You said for me to make myself at home. I was trying to find a movie we could watch together…and when I saw the familiar shape of the case, I couldn't resist." It was only after he'd uttered the excuse that Sherlock belatedly realized that John didn't even have a DVD player attached to his telly. Fortunately, John didn't seem to notice the slip. 

"That's right, you play, don't you," John said offhandedly as he began putting the violin back in its case. "You mentioned that the other night."

"Yes." Sherlock bit his lower lip, trying to think of something else to say. John's closed-off expression didn't bode well for his seduction campaign. "It's beautiful," he tried. "You've kept it very well. Not surprising, since you obviously treasure it." 

"Well yeah," John said with a shrug. "It was Grandpa Hardwicke's prize possession and the one thing I have left from the ranch. It'd be disrespectful not to."

"What's the carving on the tailpiece?" Sherlock asked. "It's a bit too worn for me to make it out clearly." If he could distract John, get him talking, maybe he could make him relax and forget about Sherlock's trespasses.

"It's the Watson family crest," John explained, tracing a gentle finger over the carvings. "Three birds and three crescent moons. The family legend is that one of my ancestors carved it on his trip across the pond."

"Fascinating. So, do you play?" Sherlock asked, despite already knowing the answer. While John's hands bore many calluses, the ones on his fingertips weren't the ones that a violinist earned from an instrument's strings.

John shook his head and smiled sadly. "I wish I did. My grandpa tried to teach me, but I have a tin ear. I never got past the first few scales before he died and then everything...well, never mind." John's lips twitched in an unhappy grimace.

"Not your father?" Sherlock asked before he could stop himself.

John sniffed and shook his head in quick, sideways tilt. "No. He was a soldier…he didn't have time to learn an instrument. He enjoyed singing, though."

Sherlock opened his mouth, intending to demand more details, but then shut it. John's mulish expression did not bode well for a successful interrogation. _"Flies, vinegar and honey, little brother,"_ came Mycroft's patronizing tones in the back of his mind. _Shut. Up,_ Sherlock ordered his brother's unhelpful projection. "He sounds like a good man," Sherlock said aloud instead, hoping to integrate himself back into John's good graces. 

"Yes, he was," John said shortly, not softening a bit. "So," John continued, deliberately changing the topic as he tucked the violin back in its case, "are you ready to eat?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. He wasn't, not really, but perhaps agreeing would pacify his host. Sherlock watched John put the violin case away in its drawer with a pang of regret. Perhaps later he could convince John to let him play. He followed John into the kitchen nook and began unpacking the to-go boxes while John busied himself with clearing off the small table. The papers vanished into a locked drawer while the pens ended up in a jar on top of the entertainment center. 

"I'm going to run upstairs and grab a spare chair," John announced, donning a pair of cheap sandals. "I'll be back in a tick," he added, pulling the door shut behind him.

Sherlock bit his lip as he looked around the tiny flat. It was hardly a den of seduction, despite John's reputation. There wasn't even a spare candle that he could set out on the table. Granted, John's body language hadn't been very flirtatious, compared to prior occasions—even before he made his displeasure at catching Sherlock snooping clear—so a candle on the table might be pushing it. But that didn't rule out the other small steps he could take to set the mood.

When John returned several minutes later, a folding chair tucked under his arm, it was to find Sherlock standing barefoot in the kitchen, arranging their meals onto plates. The table had been set with folded napkins and metal flatware, rather than plastic utensils that had come in the bag. Sherlock's mobile was sitting on the center of the table, the faint strains of one of the Indian Sarod virtuoso, Amjad Ali Khan's performances drifting through its speaker. John froze just inside the doorway, his eyebrows rising in visible astonishment as he took in the scene.

"I hope you don't mind," Sherlock said, ducking his chin in feigned bashfulness as he arranged saffron rice and vegetables into a visually pleasing pattern,"...but I...thought that eating off of real plates might be nicer than eating from takeout boxes." 

John blinked twice and coughed to clear his throat. "No, I don't mind at all." John said, kicking his sandals off. He set the chair down at the table before coming over to stand beside Sherlock. "That looks great," John continued, relenting slightly. "Errr...Is there anything I can do to help?"

Sherlock could feel the warmth radiating off of John's frame. John smelled faintly of some sort of spicy soap or body wash and clean skin. It was...nice, as Molly would no doubt say. _Not that it was relevant to the case,_ he reminded himself sharply. Sherlock tilted his head and shot John a flirtatious look through his lashes. "Ah...Perhaps the drinks?"

"Sure. What can I get you?" John asked, standing up on his toes and pulling two mismatched glasses out of the cupboard. The motion made the hem of his shirt ride up, exposing a thin strip of belly. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, mesmerized by the glimpse of tanned skin revealed by the low-slung jeans and tight shirt. "Uh...What do you have?" Sherlock asked, refocusing on the plates he was preparing in an effort to distract himself.

John shrugged. "Well, I've got tea and water—though the minerals give it a rather strange taste for those not used to it—I can make us some fresh coffee if you want. I think the milk's still good. I've also got beer, if you want that," John said doubtfully. "I've got a couple of bottles of homebrew my buddy David gave me for my birthday. Caveat though, the stuff's strong and I don't know how well it would pair with Chickpea Tikka Masala or Palak Paneer." 

Sherlock shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was compromise the functioning of his brain with alcohol. "I'll have tea. Please," he added as an afterthought. 

"Sweet or unsweet?" John asked, picking up the glass. 

Sherlock's brow wrinkled in confusion. Was this some sort of Americanism? Granted, he hadn't been paying as much attention to his should have been to local dining customs. "Err...sweet?" He could always add more sugar later, if he needed to.

"What about lemon?" John asked, reaching for the fridge. "Or ice?"

 _Ice?_ Sherlock stared at John, his confusion evident. "What are you doing?"

John frowned. "Getting your tea?"

"From the refrigerator?"

"Yes?" John gave Sherlock puzzled expression. "Don't tell me they don't have iced tea up north?"

"You could say that," Sherlock said faintly, staring with an appalled expression at the large jar John had removed from the fridge. Was _that_ the substance his coworkers at the Triple C had been imbibing all this time? Disgusting. Tea should _never_ be served iced. The mere idea was an abomination...but maybe it was one he could save to inflict on Mycroft… "Never mind," Sherlock said aloud. "I'll have water with dinner."

"You sure?"

"Yes." Sherlock took a seat at the table while John filled two glasses with ice and water and brought them to the table. He waited until John had taken his seat picked up his utensils first before picking up his own fork—a lesson in manners he'd had drilled into him by Nanny at the age of two.

Conversation was sparse, John was clearly hungry and Sherlock was preoccupied with his own thoughts. Donovan's words about John Watson's finances and possible motivations echoed in his mind. In London, a flat the size of John's would easily let for several hundred pounds a week. Here, though, he'd be surprised if John's rent exceeded that in a month. Sherlock let his eyes rove over the small space, mentally subtracting John's estimated monthly expenses from the annual budget that the Triple C set for its veterinary care. Surely he could afford better accommodations than this? And if John was somehow on somebody's saboteur payroll, then where was the money going, if not on living the 'high life'? It was possible that John Watson had an undisclosed gambling habit, but that didn't seem to be the sort of thing that Anthea would miss when compiling her profiles. Molly's offhand mention of Captain Lestrade's horse acting 'spooky' and being treated by John Watson showed a bit more promise. Sherlock watched John shovel another bite of food into his mouth and made a mental note to ask John about New Scotland Yard's medical records. He'd gone over the medical records Mycroft had supplied him with, both of Devil's Blaze and of the late Cream Soda, but he hadn't found anything that might link the two, other than their suddenly-aggressive behavior. Perhaps the introduction of a third set of records would reveal some new insights... 

"Billy? Are you feeling alright? You've hardly touched your food," John's soft voice called Sherlock away from his mental wanderings and he blinked, his gaze refocusing on John's concerned face.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied, hurriedly scooping up a forkful of rice and grilled aubergine onto his fork and shoving it into his mouth. "I was just thinking," Sherlock continued, once he'd finished chewing and swallowing.

"What about?" John asked, tilting his head to one side.

"Devil's Blaze mostly," Sherlock answered vaguely.

"Yeah, I get that. Don't forget to eat though," John said, his tone gently chiding as he stared down at his plate and stabbed at a piece of grilled onion. "And don't give me that crap about food slowing your brain down."

"Why not?"

"Well, for starters, I hate to see good food go to waste," John retorted, popping the onion into his mouth, as if by enthusiastically chewing, he could convince Sherlock to do the same. 

_Interesting. A potential sore point related to poverty, perhaps? Best to comply._ Sherlock smiled wryly, as if he was acknowledging John's point and scooped up another forkful of rice. In all honesty, it wasn't a terrible hardship. The food was quite flavorful; almost as good as the dishes served at the Rajdoot, back home in London, and the company was no hardship. For a moment, Sherlock could almost pretend that he and John were out on a date, with nothing more pressing than enjoying a meal and perhaps going for a walk afterwards. But the memory of Donovan's suspicions about the state of John Watson's finances and his own lack of conclusive leads quickly dispelled that illusion.

He didn't have time to waste on pointless fantasies when he had a case to solve. 

Sherlock studied John through his lashes as he ate another piece of aubergine. There was a tinge of pink on John's cheekbones and the tips of his ears were red. Embarrassment at the size of his living quarters? Residual annoyance about catching Sherlock snooping? Or was it purely a physiological reaction to the grilled Bhut Jolokia chili peppers John was eating? After a moment's deliberate thought, Sherlock slid one bare foot across the floor and lightly brushed it against one of John's feet to see what changes in John's respiration and pupil size he could observe.

John almost levitated out of his chair.

"John?" Sherlock asked, jerking backwards and infusing his voice with wariness as he looked at John with wide eyes. "Did I...did I do something wrong?"

"No! Not at all!" John said hurriedly. "Sorry, you just surprised me, Billy. Your feet are like ice."

Sherlock bit his lower lip and added just the faintest hint of wobble. "Is that the only thing? Because you seem tense...you haven't flirted with me at all tonight...are you...I thought...did I misread the situation?" Sherlock asked, giving John an opportunity contradict him.

"Christ no! That's not it at all!" John looked horrified at Sherlock's question, easily taking the bait.

"Then what's wrong?" Sherlock repeated plaintively as he tilted his head to one side.

John set his fork down and scrubbed at his face with both hands. "I just...Jesus this is awkward. Okay," John said blowing out a breath before looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes. "For starters, how much do you remember from the other night?"

Sherlock blinked, a little surprised by the question. This wasn't going the way he'd anticipated. "I remember most of it," Sherlock lied.

"Really?" John asked, giving him a patently skeptical look. "What parts specifically?"

"Er, well, I remember dancing and sharing a few drinks," Sherlock said slowly, pulling up the information he'd gleaned from conversations with the Triple C's staff and his own deductions. "And I know we talked…" John sniffed at that, his mouth and eyebrows doing a complicated dance. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and honed in on John's micro expressions like a raptor spotting its prey. _Regret? Shame? Some combination of the two?_. "What?" Sherlock asked, deliberately letting his voice trail off to encourage John to reply.

"Talked. Yeah," John confirmed with a sigh. "We talked all right."

"What about?"

"Horses...pets...music…" John paused to clear his throat and take a quick sip of his water before continuing. "The fact that I'm attracted to you."

"That's rather obvious, John," Sherlock pointed out bluntly.

"Dick," John shot back, but there wasn't any real heat in his voice. "I mentioned I was interested in you and you indicated that you weren't horrified by the idea."

"And?" Sherlock demanded impatiently. "For God's sake, clearly the feeling is mutual," Sherlock snapped, gesturing to indicate their dinner and his efforts at making it appear presentable. "I hardly would have asked if we could have dinner alone in the privacy of your flat and sought out the good china—or what passes for it in your cupboards—otherwise. Why do you look so guilty at me finding your interest mutually agreeable?"

"Because you specifically asked if we could take it slow. I knew that when we went to that alley for some fresh air, but the next thing I knew, I had you shoved up against a damn wall and was grinding against your leg, Billy! Hell, if it hadn't been for you starting to slur and bringing me to my senses, I would have jacked you off in that alley, no questions asked!" John shouted, his voice rife with self-recrimination. The fingers of his left hand clenched into a fist and he thumped it against his thigh hard enough that it would probably leave a bruise. 

Sherlock blinked, feeling a sudden flood of heat suffuse his body and pool in his groin at the mental images invoked. He'd speculated that he'd he'd tripped and stumbled into something like a drunken idiot...being slammed up against a brick wall and kissed within an inch of his life by John Watson had been far beyond the scope of his deductions. It was immediately followed by a feeling of fury at his sotted idiot of a past self. He'd been fantasizing about kissing John Watson for _weeks_ and not only had he royally buggered it up the first opportunity he'd been given, he hadn't even _remembered_ it. "I don't know why you're so upset. I certainly must have enjoyed myself," Sherlock retorted, waving a hand dismissively, desperately hoping to absolve John of his utterly illogical guilt. "And you didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do—"

"Stop it, just stop right there," John interrupted, jabbing an angry finger in Sherlock's direction. "I don't _care_ if you were enjoying yourself. The fact that you were plastered at the time means you couldn't consent. That's just wrong, Billy. Completely and utterly wrong!"

Sherlock bit his lower lip as he stared at the seething man across the table. Clearly, he'd miscalculated. "I...didn't mean to imply that you'd done anything wrong, John," Sherlock began hesitantly, in a tone intended to placate. "Molly and a bunch of others said you're a good man and somebody to be trusted. You aren't the type of person to take advantage of a situation—" if the lack of conclusive evidence he'd deduced about his own body was any indicator "—and I am fully capable of defending myself it the situation warrants it. If you kissed me, it could only have been with my permission." Sherlock laughed self-deprecatingly. "I just wish I could remember it."

John grimaced, like he'd bitten into a particularly uncooked piece of squid or a green persimmon. "That's...not making me feel any better," John admitted, staring down at his plate and stabbing half-heartedly at a piece of potato.

Sherlock pursed his lips as he stared down at his own plate, contemplating the situation from multiple angles. He needed an excuse to see John in a social context. _It was a logical course of action,_ Sherlock thought to himself, purposely ignoring the mental image of Mycroft's raised eyebrows. If he could definitively prove John's innocence, he could bring him on as a partner. John was intelligent; the quality of the medical records he'd kept and the tests he'd ordered in an attempt to accurately diagnose Devil's Blaze accentuated that fact. John's full inclusion in the case would only be an...asset, Sherlock mused as he took another bite of rice. He needed John to relax and let down his guard. Ergo, he needed to find a way to simultaneously distract John from his guilt and at the same time, lay the foundation for future encounters. Sherlock contemplated several conversational openings and just as quickly discarded them. Now was not an appropriate time for idiot client anecdotes, nor did asking John about the story behind his broken pinky finger seem like a good idea. Sherlock flicked his gaze upward, taking in John's freshly washed hair and the slump of exhaustion visible in his posture, despite John's efforts to disguise it. "So, uh...how was work?" Sherlock asked, privately loathing the sheer banality of the question.

John looked up and gave Sherlock a wan smile. "It wasn't bad, just busy. Two cases of cattle with mouth abscesses from eating hay contaminated with foxtails, some routine vaccinations and a couple of calf castrations."

"That's nice," Sherlock said awkwardly. He pressed his lips together in mild embarrassment before trying again. "Speaking of cattle, did you, uh, get anywhere with those aggressive cattle cases?"

John shook his head. "Not yet. How 'bout you? How'd Ms. Ross's favorite devil?"

"Temperamental as ever," Sherlock replied, raising and lowering one shoulder in a graceful shrug. "Leaving him alone for the weekend was a mistake, as I tried to explain to Ms. Ross, but she was insistent. I've spent the past two days re-acclimating him to my presence. I'm hoping to get him into a rope halter next week so I can start on groundwork…" Sherlock continued, launching into a detailed lecture about his methods. He alternated between giving John hesitant looks through his lashes and one or two 'accidental' brushes of their knees under the table. 

Sherlock watched with private satisfaction as John's smiles became more frequent and his posture relaxed in subconscious response to Sherlock's body language. When their plates were empty, Sherlock made a point of helping wash up—if he'd been at home, he simply would have left the dishes in the sink for Mrs. Hudson to deal with—before making his move. 

"John?" Sherlock asked, pitching his voice low and hesitant. He reached out and rested his fingertips lightly at the base of John's spine, noting the way John froze at Sherlock's touch. "I'm not intoxicated," Sherlock continued, watching John's Adam's apple bob. "And watching you lick your lips has been very distracting...Would it...would it be okay to kiss you?" Sherlock asked, allowing the infliction of his voice to communicate his fear of rejection. He stubbornly ignored the small part of his mind that was busy screaming that this might be a Bad Idea. It was just his transport, after all. It wouldn't be the first time he'd used it as a tool to seduce information or favors out of suspects. 

"Oh God yes," John growled in a husky voice, his eyes flaring with desire. Despite that, he stayed where he was, allowing Sherlock to make the first move. 

Sherlock bit his bottom lip in what he knew was an enticing fashion before stepping forward into John's space. His large hands reached out to cradle John's skull and he tipped John's head back so he could stare into his eyes. It was an important step for building intimacy. John smiled and made an approving noise, his own hands coming up to rest on Sherlock's waist just above Sherlock's belt. They were shockingly warm, Sherlock noted, even through the fabric of his shirt. What would they feel like on bare skin? Sherlock mentally chided himself for his momentary flight of fancy and bent forward to press his lips against John's.

It was... nice. Not earth-shattering, but certainly not unpleasant. The texture of John's chapped lips against his own, well-moisturized ones was surprisingly pleasing, part of Sherlock's mind distantly noted as he rubbed their lips together. Pleasing the way the sugar granules on a sugar-topped butter cookie or shortbread were.

Even though John seemed fully committed to the moment, Sherlock could read the tension in John's neck and shoulders through his hands. John was holding himself back, responding to the teasing brush of Sherlock's lips with gentle, almost chaste kisses. Like he was sipping fine scotch or a good French brandy. It was almost certainly because he was trying to avoid a repeat of his behavior at the bar, Sherlock decided. Victor certainly wouldn't have been so patient. Hell, Sherlock knew that if he'd tried this sort of teasing on Victor, Victor would have had him stripped and stretched out over the nearest horizontal surface with his bum slicked up and in the air in less time than it took for a racehorse to run the British Investec Derby. John's restraint was admirable after a fashion, but at the same time, it was frustrating in the extreme when Sherlock could sense the restrained power thrumming through John's frame. It was oddly similar to the anticipation and exhilaration of being astride a thoroughbred on a track just before the gate opened. He found himself wondering what it would take to make John cede his self-control. Experimentally, Sherlock nipped at John's bottom lip, sucking into his mouth and soothing with a quick swipe of his tongue.

John responded like a racehorse at the crack of the starter's pistol.

With a growl, John used his pelvis and chest to back Sherlock against the nearest cabinet. The flat palm of his left hand came up to thread through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, making a fist and tilting Sherlock's head to one side, while his right hand took a firm grip on Sherlock's left arsecheek and squeezed. When Sherlock opened his mouth to gasp, John sealed his mouth over Sherlock's, his tongue slipping between Sherlock's lips to plunder the inside of his mouth.

Sherlock felt his mind go blank under the sensual onslaught of John Watson in full 'Three Circuits' mode. All thoughts of the case, of John's motives, and his own suspicions vanished like so much mist on the moor. If it hadn't been for John's strong hands holding him up, he almost certainly would have crumpled to the floor. _How_ could he have forgotten this? More importantly, why had he ever stopped? It was just kissing; the simple press of one orifice to another to stimulate the release of dopamine and oxytocin as a component of foreplay in preparation for sexual intercourse. It shouldn't be capable of invoking a craving for _more_ worthy of Mrs. Hudson's fresh-baked Chelsea buns or her rum-laced sticky toffee pudding. He wanted to strip John naked and devour him, gorge himself on the taste of John's mouth and the different flavors of his skin until he was completely satiated, before sleeping for sixteen hours straight in a soft bed made up with Egyptian cotton sheets and his down comforter.

And then repeat the experiment.

"God, your fucking mouth," John mumbled, nipping at Sherlock's jaw line, his hot breath gusting over Sherlock's skin. "I love your mouth. I want to put my fingers in your mouth. I want to put _everything_ in your mouth..."

"Please," Sherlock hissed, using John's hair to tug his mouth back up to where he wanted it.

A phone began ringing in the background, its shrill tone distracting Sherlock from the thudding of his own pulse and the enticing noises John was making as Sherlock ground against him. "Dull. Ignore it," Sherlock gasped, pulling back briefly and tilting his head back so John could lave his tongue along his throat. His hands scrabbled at the back of John's shirt tugging it up so he could run his hands greedily over the skin of John's bare back.

"Mmmm…" John rumbled in agreement, scraping his teeth along the ridge of Sherlock's collarbone and setting off trails of sparks behind Sherlock's eyes. The phone fell silent as the call was routed to voicemail, but it almost immediately began ringing again, cutting through the mood like a metaphorical WWII Carter Gents air-raid siren. 

"Goddamit!" John snapped in frustration, pulling back to glare at the digital clock on the microwave. He grimaced at the numbers displayed. "Sorry, Billy," John said apologetically as he stepped back with visible reluctance and went to fetch his phone from the bathroom where he'd apparently left it. "Just—if somebody's calling me twice in a row at this hour, it has to be an emergency. Probably something to do with Harry." The call ended before John could answer, only to immediately start ringing again. "Watson here," John answered, his tone clipped.

Sherlock frowned, more than a bit irked at being interrupted, the prospect of more kisses in the immediate future vanishing like mist in sunlight. If John's sister was in trouble, it almost certainly meant that his evening with John was at an end. Sulkily, Sherlock began looking for his discarded boots, but his attention was caught when—instead of the anticipated hysterical female crying—Lestrade's gruff tones came through the speaker. 

"—ll are you? I know it's late, but this's an emergency. We need you at the fairgrounds, STAT. Will you come?"

"Wait. Slow down, Greg," John ordered, holding up one hand as if to forestall the police captain's stream of words. "What sort of emergency? What happened?!"

"Scotty's gone loco. Now get your ass down here before he kills somebody!"

~*~


	16. Smoke and Shadows

~*~

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to meet John's, his erection deflating rapidly as his focus shifted from sex to a case. John didn't even pause before tossing Sherlock the phone and spinning away to get ready to leave. Sherlock took a second to thumb it off of speaker mode before answering. "Define 'loco'," he demanded.

"Who the hell is this?!"

"Billy Scott—Ms. Ross's horse expert," Sherlock snapped impatiently, aware that John was listening. "We met at the fairgrounds when I was investigating Devil's Blaze's stall where Straker was killed. Now, this is important, what do you mean by 'loco'?"

"Christ, just what I said," Lestrade replied, his voice rife with barely-suppressed panic. "He was fine when I put him in his stall earlier, but now he's rearing and screaming like a junkie on a bad PCP or wet trip. Now put John back on the damn phone."

"How long has he been that way?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Lestrade's order.

"I dunno. I was on my way back with the trailer when I got the call. Maybe five minutes?"

There was a scuffling noise from behind him. Sherlock turned to see John pulling one of the locked trunks from under his bed and thumbing open the combination. John had already pulled on his boots and tucked in his shirt in the time it had taken for Sherlock to catch the phone and begin interrogating Lestrade. The lid of the trunk opened to reveal an impressive assortment of bottles, syringes, and other related medical equipment. "Symptoms!" John barked, grabbing an empty, black toolbox and flipping it open. His hands were already reaching for bottles of medication with the speed of muscle memory. "Quickly, now!" John added in response to Sherlock's blank look.

"Fear, aggression...panic," Sherlock relayed Lestrade's answer, watching John deftly fill the tool box with an assortment of wrapped syringes, tranquilizers and other medications. 

"Ask him if he's eaten anything recently, like possibly-contaminated feed," John ordered, putting his hand on what Sherlock identified as a bag of activated charcoal.

"Negative," Sherlock reported Lestrade's response.

"That's good," John muttered, more to himself than Sherlock as he exchanged the charcoal for several bottles of sterile saline solution. "Next question. Is he run—"

"Lestrade, is he running loose or contained?" Sherlock demanded, already anticipating John's next question. John met his eyes and nodded, one eyebrow rising as he waited for Lestrade's response.

"Yeah, he's in a box stall, but he's kicking it to pieces and I don't know how long it's gonna hold. If he gets out, we're gonna have to shoot him. There's a crowd of people here tonight." 

"He's still contained but Lestrade's worried they may have to shoot him if he breaks out of the stall," Sherlock relayed. "Multiple leg injuries reported." 

"Not on my watch, he won't," John retorted, tossing extra bandages and iodine into the box before slamming it closed and jumping to his feet. "Hold this, Billy," John ordered, shoving the toolbox into Sherlock's arms and grabbing the phone. "Greg, are there any other vets out there? Lily Hobbs, Steve Franklin or Ben Kyle?"

"No," Lestrade replied. "How fast can you come?"

"Damn," John swore, looking down at his watch and apparently doing some fast mental calculations. "I'll be there in twenty. Shut both ends of the barn down if you can in case he does get loose. Call your regular vet and let them know what's going on. Also, get some lassos and hefty cowboys together so we can rope Scotty. Call me if anything changes, okay? Bye." John hung up and turned to where Sherlock was hovering by the door. "You got everything you need?" John asked as he shrugged his jacket on and grabbed his keys.

Sherlock nodded.

"Billy, I'm sorry," John began as he locked his door and began hurrying up the steps, Sherlock close on his heels. "I can drop you at a gas station on my way and give you the money so you can take a cab back to your truck—"

"Don't be an idiot John," Sherlock cut him off. "I'm coming with you."

"That really isn't—"

"The symptoms sound remarkably similar to what happened to Ms. Ross's horse," Sherlock interrupted. "I need information, John—preferably first-hand knowledge. It might be the key to figuring out what's wrong with Devil's Blaze."

John blew out an impatient breath, but didn't argue. "Fine. Let's go."

~*~

The ride to the fairgrounds seemed to take forever, even though John drove like a metaphorical member of the Chiroptera order fleeing from a flaming mythical underworld, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding his mobile to his ear as he arranged for an equine ambulance to meet them at the fairgrounds. Sherlock was privately convinced that John had simultaneously broken at least three (if not more) American traffic regulations at one point, judging by the honking and gesturing from the young woman in a sports car they'd passed in an intersection. He could feel his right hand cramping from where it was wrapped around the handle bolted to the underside of the truck's roof—a grab point, he'd learned that was colloquially known as the 'oh SHIT!' bar. Back home, Mrs. Hudson had occasionally interrupted his periodic diatribes about quality London cabbies to regale him with stories about the terrible drivers she'd encountered when she'd still lived in Florida. Sherlock tightened his grip and fought down an involuntary yelp as John used the motorway's shoulder to blow past a lorry like it was standing still. No matter what Mrs. Hudson thought, Florida drivers apparently had _nothing_ on the sheer insanity of Texas drivers. 

When they reached the fairgrounds, John didn't even bother stopping in the car park; he drove over the curb and through a missing panel in the fence into the grounds—despite the yells of outrage from the man at the access gate. John dodged pedestrians and food trucks with a skill that a stunt driver would have envied, leaning on his horn as necessary when people didn't move out of the way fast enough. 

The truck finally jerked to a halt in a cloud of dust in front of a lit-up barn that had three separate police cars parked in front of it. The flashing red and blue emergency lights cast a confusing array of coloured shadows over the scene, illuminating the faces of the gawkers that had gathered in response to the excitement. A combination of bright yellow caution tape and police officers held the press of humanity back. Even then, Sherlock could see some people holding up their phones up to capture video or photos, no doubt drawn to the possibility of danger and excitement like a moth to a flame. 

"Christ!" John said rhetorically, as he killed the engine. "That does _not _sound good."__

____

____

Sherlock widened his eyes in silent agreement, even as he struggled to unclench his hand from its death grip around the grab bar. The screams of a panicked horse were clearly audible through the rolled-up windows of the cab. 

"Come on. Let's go. You carry that," John ordered, indicating the black toolbox that Sherlock held on his lap as he unsnapped his own seatbelt. "I'll grab the other two med kits from the back." 

"Doctor Watson!" A whipcord-thin young man ran up to take of the bright yellow toolbox that John pulled out. "Captain Lestrade sent me to watch for you. Stall nineteen. We've got the lassos ready. Hurry. It's bad. The horse has already broken one of the gate hinges!" 

_"Jesus!"_ John swore, heading for the barn at a dead run, leaving Sherlock behind. 

When Sherlock tried to follow John through the door, he found his way blocked by a beefy security officer. "Hold on, buddy. Let the professionals handle this—" 

"I'm with him, you idiot!" Sherlock snapped, holding up the toolbox by way of example. 

"What did you call me?!" the security guard demanded, folding his arms across his chest in a manner that was no doubt intended to be intimidating. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn't have time to waste on fools. "John!" 

There was a pause, followed by the sound of running boots doubling back. 

"It's fine. Let him through, Bart," John ordered, clearly realizing what was going on. "He's with me." 

"But who _is_ he?" 

"I _said_ he's with me. Billy, come on!" 

Sherlock spared a withering glare for the security officer before setting off in pursuit. 

"John, thank God you're here," Lestrade gasped as John and Sherlock dashed around a corner and halted in front of stall nineteen a few moments later. When Lestrade caught sight of Sherlock, he balked. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

"You need me," Sherlock retorted, ignoring Lestrade's surprise and focusing on the Appaloosa in front of him. 

It was easy to understand why Lestrade had called John in panic. The gelding was screaming and rearing inside the box stall, his hooves striking out against anything and everything. Sherlock could see the broken door hinge that the cowboy had mentioned. Some quick-witted individual had tied a rope across the stall gate, but it was clear from the way the wood was shaking that it was only a temporary fix. As it was, pieces of wood were breaking off under the gelding's assault with a sound similar to a rifle's crack. Bloody lather speckled Scotty's coat and more blood was dripping from his nose and mouth. His legs were already marred by cuts and more gashes dotted his hide where he'd scraped himself against pieces of broken wood. 

The worst part was the gelding's ominously blood-shot eyes. They had the blind, panicked look that Sherlock had only seen in the most abused or feral of animals. To the untrained, an aggressive horse and a frightened horse might look the same, but to Sherlock, it was clear that New Scotland Yard's behavior stemmed from pure, unadulterated terror, not anger. Scotty was so frightened, he wasn't even registering the humans trying to help and since he couldn't flee, he was utterly focused on self defense. His hooves were striking out at shadows and humans alike as though they were attacking him. 

Sherlock took a quick look around at the crowd of people. Some officers were busy photographing the panicked horse, the flashes of their cameras lighting up the area like lightning against a dark sky and leaving afterimages on Sherlock's eyes. Other officers had their torches out and were sweeping the powerful beams around the room. They were most likely searching for a cause or culprit, but the light, the babble of voices and the conflicting odours from the sudden influx of strange humans were only adding to the gelding's panic. 

"John, the crowd," Sherlock snapped, bending down to where John was busily pulling out a syringe and two brown glass bottles from the red toolbox he'd been carrying. 

"What about it?" John asked, not looking up from the syringe he was filing. 

"They need to leave. Now. The horse is caught in a fear-induced feedback loop. The noise and odours of the crowd are panicking him and the confinement to a stall means he can't flee, which only makes the panic worse." 

"Shit, you're right," John said, straightening up abruptly. "Hey," he barked, putting the full force of 'Captain Watson' into play. "If you aren't somebody who can lasso a horse, get out of the barn. You're making the situation worse. Do it! Now!" John shouted when people seemed disinclined to move. 

"You heard him! Move it!" Lestrade barked, jerking his thumb towards the door. A few of the onlookers gazed at each other skeptically, but the tone of Lestrade's voice and his subsequent glare when people didn't move immediately apparently overrode the natural human inclination to stay and watch. "So what's the plan, John?" Lestrade asked, turning back once people started leaving. 

John grimaced. "As much as I hate doing this without knowing what's going on first, we're going to have to restrain and sedate him." 

"I'm not telling you how to do your job, John, but isn't that dangerous?" Lestrade asked worriedly. "The paramedics are always leery about sedating violent patients in the field, no matter how much the poor bastards might need it." 

"It is, but he's liable to break a leg or kill somebody if he doesn't calm down," John replied, speaking loudly to be heard over the cacophony. He tilted his head to indicate the screaming, rearing Appaloosa. "This is the best of a bunch of bad options," John continued, flicking the barrel of the hypodermic to remove the air bubbles. "I'm going to inject him intramuscularly with a xylazine/Dormosedan cocktail. Xylazine is short-action—five minutes or less. Dormosedan takes longer to kick in, but it'll keep him sedated for at least forty-five minutes. Both are low-toxicity, so they're fairly safe if he's got something else in his system." 

"But what if something does go wrong?" Lestrade demanded in the worried tone that Sherlock associated with sentiment, not logic. 

"I'll be giving them intramuscularly, which will give me a bit of time if something does go south," John replied—a vague answer that was probably intended to be soothing, Sherlock observed. "The most common side effects are sweating and decreased intestinal motility," John continued, forcing a bit of liquid through the needle of the syringe. "Both are a hell of a lot less dangerous than leaving him like he is. Now, where are the lassos I ordered?" John asked, his voice switching from 'Doctor' to 'Captain' without missing a beat. 

"Right here, Doc," a cowboy offered, holding up several ropes. 

"Right. Good," John said, nodding his firmly. "Clint, Buck, Donny, Ron, you four cross-rope him and hold him steady. Billy? Greg? The rest of you get ready to hang on. The moment he's in place, I'll jump in and dose him." John slid the capped syringe into his front pocket, along with a pair of latex gloves, before scrambling up the railings of the stall next door to Scotty's. He balanced neatly on the narrow edge of the gate, with one hand holding on to a post, as confident as if he were standing flat on the ground. 

"Roger Doc," the cowboy said. He paused to spit a stream of tobacco juice to one side and began pulling on a pair of battered leather gloves. "This is gonna be tricky since we can't rope him from the sides," the tallest of the cowboys announced, getting his lasso ready. "Two of you are gonna have to climb up on either side, thread your ropes through the bars and flat-loop him from above. Donny, Ron, that's your job. Go ahead and get yourselves into position. I'll take the first cast from the front, see if I can pull him forward and to the right. Buck, you go next and take him to the left." There was a brief shuffle as the men shifted into position. "Ready? Go!" So saying, the cowboy set his lasso flying, an impressive feat considering the physical constraints of the barn and the frantic movement of the target. The circle of rope whooshed through the air before dropped neatly around Scotty's neck. 

And all hell broke loose. 

"Son of a _bitch_!" the first cowboy yelled as he was jerked off his feet and slammed into the stall door with a sickening thud that could be heard over the gelding's screams. "Buck," the cowboy wheezed, "move your ass and rope him before he tips over backwards!" One of the remaining cops rushed over and added his body weight to the first rope, allowing the second, third and fourth lassos to be landed in quick succession. Taking his cue from the others, Sherlock dashed forward, grabbed the end of one of the ropes and dug his boots in. As the lines snapped taut, they more or less pinned the rearing horse in place. Scotty struggled for another moment before dropping his front feet to the ground. 

"Good!" John yelled. "Hold him, I'm going in!" 

"Watch yourself Doc!" 

"Easy boy, easy, you're gonna be fine," John chanted soothingly, trying to move in close enough to administer the jab, while the gelding screamed and twisted, trying to break free. "I'm not gonna hurt you—I'm just going to give you something that'll help you calm down. Woah, easy, boy, easy!" 

Sherlock watched John jump back avoid the jerking ropes and the flashing hooves with a sick feeling in his stomach. Even with multiple ropes holding him and the bodies of the cowboys weighing him down, the gelding managed to put up a fierce fight. His blood-stained, bared teeth gleamed in the harsh lights, teeth that were fully capable of biting off a finger or tearing a chunk of flesh loose if they latched on. And that didn't even factor in the damage Scotty's hooves could do if they made contact: a cracked skull, broken bones, ruptured internal organs or worse. 

But John didn't flinch at the danger. Instead, he moved like a dancer, avoiding the gelding's strikes the way a bartitsuka avoided an opponent's blows during a match while simultaneously watching for an opening. 

Faster than Sherlock would have thought possible, John darted forward, managing to slide the hypodermic into the gelding's neck without breaking the needle while Scotty's head was turned away. He smoothly depressed the plunger to administer the sedatives and scrambled back over the stall gate to safety with the empty sharp still in one hand before Sherlock could do more than gasp. 

The entire process took him ten, maybe fifteen seconds. 

Sherlock blinked as John landed beside him, slightly in awe of how John had just risked serious injury or sudden death for the sake of a patient and wasn't even breathing heavily. 'Balls that would make a bull jealous indeed,' came the thought. Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to keep the entirely inappropriate surge of lust in check when what he really wanted to do was slam John against the nearest vertical surface and ravish his mouth. 

"Keep the ropes on," John ordered, capping the hypodermic and dropping it and the soiled gloves into a plastic bag in his medical kit, entirely as if he hadn't just done something remarkable. "The sedative should kick in in about five minutes," John continued, "but like Buck said, I don't want him rearing and going over backwards. Greg?" John asked, beckoning the man over, "do you have any idea what the hell might have happened?" 

"Damned if I know," Lestrade shouted, reluctantly letting go of the rope he'd been holding and walking backwards, all without taking his eyes off his horse. "Whatever this is, it came on fast. Before this, I was doing a mounted patrol because of the monthly H  & 8th Night Market. My shift ended at nine, so I cooled Scotty down and put him in an empty stall while I got the trailer ready. I was standing in line, getting a donut and coffee when Davis paged me with a ten-ninety-one bee in Barn Five. Said someone reported what sounded like a horse being murdered. I came back to this," Lestrade concluded, gesturing at the still-rearing, screaming gelding. 

"Does this place have CCTV? Was anybody caught snooping around?" Sherlock asked, letting go of the rope he'd been helping hold and stepping back. "What about witnesses?" 

"No, no and you're looking at them," Lestrade snapped. 

Sherlock blew out an angry breath, but his angry retort was cut off by John. 

"What about Deputy Davis? Is he still here?" John asked, tilting his head to one side. 

"Yeah, she's the cop at the far door keeping people out. Davis!" Lestrade yelled, turning and beckoning the black woman in bicycling gear over. 

"Sir?" 

"Doctor Watson here was wondering if you saw anybody odd when you made the call," Lestrade said, indicating John. 

__"No sir," the patrol officer replied, shaking her head. "I was riding my beat when some lady ran up, screaming that a horse was being abused in one of the barns. I paged you sir, because I don't deal with no horses. When I got here, the barn was empty as far as I could tell, 'cept for that demon horse."_ _

"What did she look like?" Sherlock asked. 

"Who? The woman who flagged me down?" 

Sherlock nodded. 

"White. Shoulder-length red hair. Mid-thirties. Five-foot six, slim. I don't know where she is now. She didn't give a name." 

"Right, thank you Deputy Davis," Lestrade said with a weary sigh. "I appreciate it." 

"No problem, sir," the woman replied, tipping her head politely before striding back to her post. 

"Wonderful," Sherlock announced sarcastically, throwing his hands up in disgust. "Our 'Good Samaritan' has helpfully vanished and we have no other leads. Clearly your police department is to be commended for their diligence—" 

"Hey—" Lestrade began, one hand clenching. 

"Shut it. Both of you," John ordered. "I know you're both worried, but we'll know more once I get Scotty to the clinic and run some tests. In the meantime," John began, taking his keys from his pocket, grabbing Sherlock's hand and slapping his keys into Sherlock's palm with enough force to sting, "you do me a favor and get a scotch hobble, a set of standard hobbles and a grazing muzzle from my truck, okay? It's the large army footlocker on the left. Thanks. Greg," John continued, turning to face the other man, "fill a bucket with some cool water so I can clean off the worst of Scotty's injuries. I need to know what I'm dealing with." 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at being ordered about, but didn't argue. He had enough sense to recognize that John was doing his best to diffuse the situation before Sherlock found himself being punched. 

The crowd outside had grown Sherlock noted absently as he unlocked John's truck and began rooting around inside, seeking the items the vet had requested. _Gawpers, _he decided scathingly. Almost certainly drawn by excitement to gape at the scene if the flashing of cameras and camera phones was any indicator. He found the hobbles and muzzle and closed the box that they'd been stored in. After a moment's thought, Sherlock began investigating the other tool boxes.__

____

____

Most of them were full of necessary-but-boring-equipment and supplies. They were also colour coded. Yellow for gauze, flex bandages and swabs, orange for antiseptic wipes, antiseptic sprays, iodine tablets and bottles of sterile water for wound irrigation. The blue box held instant cold and hot packs, while a large white box contained gloves of different sizes, goggles and masks. The green toolbox contained the supplies necessary for specimen collection: vacuum syringes, catheters, sample bags, sterile swabs, transport tubes and cardboard boxes containing an array of color-coded, plastic, Vacutainer collection tubes. 

Smirking, Sherlock pocketed two syringes, a handful of antiseptic wipes and several bags. He tucked a selection of Vacutainer tubes and three scalpels into his right boot. Swabs and more transport tubes went into his left boot, along with a selection of capped hypodermics with differing needle gauges. Sherlock closed and locked the truck before hurrying back to the barn with his hat pulled low in an attempt to shield his face. 

"Thanks," John said, accepting his keys back and the muzzle and hobbles Sherlock had fetched. He gave Sherlock a quick smile of gratitude, but his eyes didn't leave his patient as he threaded a rope through the metal D-rings attached to each end of of the scotch hobble. After several more long, tense moments, Scotty's head finally began to droop. 

"John?" Lestrade asked worriedly. 

"It's fine. It's just the sedatives kicking in," John reassured him, watching the gelding's balance with a critical eye. "Okay boys, he's going under. Give him a little more slack," John ordered the cowboys that were still hanging onto the lassos. "I'm gonna check him out, Greg. Could you hold this, Billy?" John continued passing over the scotch hobble. Without waiting for Sherlock's response, John picked up the red toolbox and slowly climbed over the stall gate, rather than opening it. 

Sherlock immediately followed, vaulting nimbly over the gate and landing in the stall with an almost-soundless thud. The sudden movement made Scotty snort and toss his head, but he couldn't do much else, restrained as he was by the ropes and drugs. 

John turned and gave Sherlock a raised eyebrow. "You do realize that being in here is incredibly dangerous, right? I mean, the sedative will probably keep him calm, but there's no guarantees." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sniffed. "John, you've seen the types of horses I work with. A sedated police horse of a breed that is renowned for their docility is hardly a threat." 

John snorted. "It sure as hell will be if the sedatives wear off suddenly," he pointed out as he opened the toolbox and pulled out two fresh pairs of gloves, one of which he passed over to Sherlock. 

"Clearly you've taken that into account or else you wouldn't have asked me to fetch hobbles and a muzzle," Sherlock replied reasonably as he tugged on the protective barriers before turning his attention to the lassos around Scotty's neck. He was careful to keep his movements slow—easily predictable, but not the stealthy motions of a predator. 

The horse snorted and made a half-hearted attempt at kicking him as Sherlock stepped in close enough to lift the first two circles of rope over Scotty's head. "None of that," Sherlock scolded, easily avoiding the strike. He waited a moment for Scotty to settle before carefully pulling the last two lassos off. "There, you see, that wasn't so bad," Sherlock said, rubbing Scotty's neck soothingly as he clipped a lead rope to the gelding's halter. Scotty snorted and rolled his eyes in apparent disagreement. "Hold his head," Sherlock ordered, passing the rope to John and pulling the rope and scotch hobble off of his shoulder. Still moving slowly, Sherlock looped one end of the rope around Scotty's neck and tied a bowline knot. The circle of rope made a loose loop around the base of Scotty's neck that wouldn't slip and tighten, no matter how much it was pulled. Sherlock kept the other end of the coiled rope in his left hand as he picked up Scotty's left rear leg. 

The challenge of standing on three legs made it more difficult—but not impossible—for horses to kick. Moving quickly, Sherlock threaded the rope between Scotty's rear legs and looped the wide nylon cuff of scotch hobble around Scotty's left rear pastern. The large surface area would prevent abrasions, while also ensuring that it couldn't easily slip free. After checking to see that none of the ropes were twisted, Sherlock tightened the hobble until it was snug and the tip of Scotty's left rear hoof was just touching the ground. He brought the remaining end of the rope back up to Scotty's head and tied it off with a quick-release clove hitch. If Scotty started kicking, Sherlock could easily tighten the line and force Scotty's leg up two inches—not enough to hurt him but certainly enough to make the horse redirect his focus on keeping his balance, rather than fighting the people that were trying to help him. If Scotty started to fall, anybody could jerk on the knot and it would release immediately, allowing the horse use of all four feet and minimizing the risk of falling and accidentally breaking a leg. 

"Nice," John remarked, professional admiration colouring his tone. "You're fast." 

"Thank you. I have to be in my line of work," Sherlock replied, moving around to take John's place at Scotty's head. "I'll hold him so you can get started." 

"Thanks Billy," John said, surrendering his grip. "I'm going to listen to his gut first." John pulled his stethoscope from around his neck and moved to check Scotty's belly. "I don't _think_ this is colic, but it doesn't hurt to eliminate as many causes as possible. And that's the fastest thing I know that will make a horse cranky. Shhhhh, boy," John said soothingly as he pressed the stethoscope chestpiece against Scotty's skin. The horse flinched, but couldn't easily kick because doing so put pressure on his neck from the rope his foot was attached to. 

"His gut sounds normal," John reported, looping his stethoscope back around his neck. "So it isn't colic. Let's check your head." John reached up and took a hold of Scotty's halter with one hand, using the other hand to peel Scotty's top lip back and examining his gums. Frowning, John pressed his thumb against the top gum for two seconds before releasing it and watching the tissue change colour. "Cap refill's normal—that's good—whoa boy," John added as Scotty tried to pull his head back. "Calm down. It's okay. I'm just trying to help you. We've got a bilateral, intermittent serous and sanguineous nasal discharge," John reported, examining Scotty's nostrils. "Most likely an EIPH—" 

"What's that mean?" Lestrade demanded from his position by the stall door where he was watching them with anxious eyes. 

"Exercise-induced pulmonary hemorrhage," Sherlock translated. "During strenuous exercise, it isn't uncommon for some capillaries in the lungs to burst in what is called pulmonary capillary stress failure. Surveys done in the past have identified the problem in eighty-two percent of racehorses older than three years old. The blood flow isn't significant enough to be worrisome. It should stop completely within the next ten minutes or so—what?" Sherlock demanded, seeing that John had left off examining the horse and was staring at him intently. 

"Nothing," John said, shaking his head. "Just...I'm impressed that you know the underlying cause and the appropriate medical terminology, instead of just calling it a nosebleed. That's not something I generally hear unless I'm speaking to another vet." 

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock huffed, too intent on keeping his grip on Scotty's halter to bother censoring himself. "It's perfectly obvious. If it was a simple nosebleed, there would be blood coming from one nostril, not both. Bleeding from both nostrils is one of the classic symptoms of an EIPH. His blood pressure must have been fantastically high to produce such an response." 

"True. I'll check that in a few moments. The eyes are incredibly bloodshot," John observed aloud, continuing his careful examination. He used his thumb and forefinger to peel Scotty's eyelids back. "No sign of any foreign bodies. In either eye. Both eyes show evidence of mydriasis—blown pupils—" John said, supplying the informal term for Lestrade's benefit, "—and are not responding to changes in light." Pursing his lips, John pressed the fingers of his left hand against Scotty's transverse facial artery. "Pulse is elevated—seventy BPM, to be specific." 

Sherlock blinked. "Considering the amount of sedatives you recently injected into his system, that is ridiculously high. What's his respiratory rate?" 

"Also elevated. Woah," John said, tugging Scotty's head down and back as the gelding began to snort in agitation. "It's all right. You're fine. Just be still now—Billy?" 

"It's fine. I've got him," Sherlock replied, taking a firmer stance. "Do continue." 

"Okay. I'm going to check his temp," John said, pulling a digital animal thermometer from his kit and moving around to the gelding's hindquarters. "Temperature's slightly elevated—consistent with hard exercise," John reported after a few seconds. "Greg? Do you think you could pass me the blood pressure machine in the red toolbox?" John asked, turning around to address the police captain. Lestrade looked relieved to have something to do. "It's that small, gray boxy thing," John instructed. "Yeah. Thanks." John busied himself with strapping the machine's cuff around the base of Scotty's tail and pressed the button. A moment later, it beeped in response. "Shit," John swore, looking at the readings. "His blood pressure is really high…" 

"Flight, fight or stress-related?" Sherlock posited, subtly performing his own pulse check. "Humans certainly respond to acute fear with spiking blood pressure." 

John narrowed his eyes in thought as he chewed on his bottom lip. "That would make sense, except that Scotty's pretty bomb-proof—he has to be in his line of work. The way he's acting is practically identical to how Blaze was acting the night he went crazy and killed his trainer. I'm just at a loss as to what could be causing it. He's not taking steroids as far as I know. And the onset is too fast for it to be locoweed." 

"Rabies?" one of the onlookers suggested. 

John didn't roll his eyes, but he did shake his head sharply from side to side. "No. There's no way in hell this is rabies. Aside from the fact that Scotty was vaccinated for rabies only a few months ago, the symptoms are all wrong. Rabies sets in slowly—initial symptoms may take anywhere from two weeks to six months to show up and once they do, it takes one to three days for the disease to progress from the prodromal period to the acute excitative stage. It isn't like in the movies—where the animal is fine one moment and crazy the next. If nothing else, I would expect to see excessive salivation, maybe tissue damage from him chewing at the bite site. Greg?" John asked, turning his attention the police captain, "Was anything off about Scotty's behavior earlier today? Or maybe yesterday?" 

"Nope," Lestrade replied, shaking his head. "He was fine. Tried to nick a bite of my cereal bar earlier, but that's hardly unusual. If I'd noticed something off, I would've called the vet instead of taking him on patrol." 

"It's not morphine or caffeine. Nor is it likely to be a bronchodilator. Those drugs produce excitement and/or aggression. Look at the position of his ears and eyes. Especially the pupils. Even with the drugs, he's acting as if he's terrified, not excited," Sherlock mused aloud, performing his own observational analysis. "The elevated respiratory rate and the spiking blood pressure could also be indicative of—" Sherlock trailed off, acutely aware of the suspicious look John was suddenly giving him. "I'm a horse psychology consultant, John," Sherlock explained huffily. "I routinely work with elite—and consequently extremely valuable—animals. Knowing when a horse's behavioral changes have been chemically induced—as opposed to being the result of bad handling—and recognizing the specific reactions and common behavioral characteristics of banned substances is invaluable in my line of work." 

John's expression remained skeptical. His left eyebrow rose to join his right, but before he could verbally respond, Scotty suddenly began snorting and tossing his head, almost knocking John over despite Sherlock's grip on his halter and the hobble restraining one leg. 

"Oh Jesus!" John swore, his eyes going wide in shock. "The sedative wearing off!" 

"Already? That makes no sense. It's barely been ten minutes! The detomidine alone should have kept him sedated for at least forty-five minutes," Sherlock argued, using the chemical name for Dormosedan, rather than the American brand name. 

"I know that," John shot back, scrambling back over the broken gate and lunging for his kit. "I'm gonna hit him with twenty milligrams of Ace—oh, sorry Greg," John apologized as Greg didn't move out of the way quite fast enough and John bumped into him. 

"Wait, what's Ace?" Lestrade demanded as he stepped further back. He rubbed one hand nervously against a thigh before linking both hands behind his back. "What're you giving him?" 

"Acepromazine. It's another tranquilizer. I don't like using it on male horses because of the potential side effects, but Scotty's been castrated, so using him as a stud isn't a concern—and it's the longest-acting tranq I have," John explained, quickly filling a clean syringe and capping it. "Even if Scotty has been drugged with something, it should buy us enough time to get him to the clinic." 

"Is that the only reason?" Sherlock asked in a low voice as John scrambled back over the gate. "Detomidine is safe up to five times the normal dose and it can be counteracted by Yohimbine or Atipamezole." 

"Yeah, but Xylazine slows the heart rate. Switching to a different—and hopefully longer lasting— tranq is better than risking killing the patient with an overdose," John retorted in an undertone meant for Sherlock's ears only. 

John administered the second jab and stepped back, ready to either scramble out of range, or step forward to help restrain Scotty. There was a tense few moments before Scotty's agitated movements slowed and he resumed standing more or less quietly, though the state of his eyes and the position of his ears made it clear that he would still be rearing and fighting if it weren't for the chemicals coursing through his system. 

John nodded once in satisfaction. "Okay. Let's get you cleaned up a bit so I can see how badly you're hurt." John accepted the bucket of water and sponge that Lestrade passed over and began sponging off the worst of the blood that streaked Scotty's legs, being careful to avoid the open wounds. "I wish I knew what was wrong with you, boy," John murmured soothingly as he worked. "You're usually so calm." 

"Do you think this could be related to whatever made him act spooky a few months ago?" Lestrade asked suddenly, stepping forward so he could better watch what John was doing. 

Sherlock jerked his head around to stare at Lestrade, Molly's offhand comments about John examining Scotty for spooky behavior suddenly surging to the forefront of his mind. "What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, careful to keep his tone curious rather than accusatory. "What do you mean 'spooky'? Has he acted like this before?" 

Lestrade shook his head. "Not this crazy, but, well, he was acting up a bit while I was patrolling the bull rides—you remember, John? His eyes were a bit pink too, if I recall." 

"Except I couldn't find anything wrong with him when I examined him," John replied with a grimace as he rinsed out the sponge. "And that still doesn't give me any insight into what this might be. If I knew, maybe I'd have some luck with the crazy cattle calls I've been responding to. Still, that's not a bad thought..." 

"When was this?" Sherlock demanded.

"The same morning Molly found their trainer in Blaze's stall. I remember the ground-wide page for a vet."

"Doc?" One of the officers stepped forward and beckoned John closer. "Sorry to interrupt, but the horse ambulance just arrived." 

"Oh thank God," John breathed, pulling his gloves off. "I'll go meet them—let them know what's going on. Greg, you're with me. Billy? Can you keep an eye on Scotty while I direct them in?" 

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "He's quiet for the moment. If you hand me some antiseptic wipes and fresh gloves, I can keep cleaning the worst of the blood off while I wait." 

"Yeah. Good idea. Thanks," John said, handing over the requested items before striding off, followed by several onlookers. 

Sherlock waited until John and Lestrade had left and checked to see if anybody else was watching him before pulling the supplies he'd filched from John's truck out of his boots and pockets. 

It was the work of but a few moments to swab Scotty's nose and mouth, collecting samples of saliva and mucus, talking softly all the while. A few more minutes of work filled several of the vacutainer tubes with blood. It was fortunate that the tubes came already filled with the necessary coagulants and anticoagulants, Sherlock thought as he slid the filled and capped vials back into his boots; they would preserve the blood until he could get it to a lab for testing. He spared a moment's wistful thought for a urine sample, but there was no way for him to collect one. No matter. He would get copies of the urinalysis that John Watson would undoubtedly run later. 

Sherlock ripped open another wipe packet and rubbed the antiseptic cloth over the small puncture wound, cleaning away the small droplet of blood welling from the site, before turning his attention to the larger, bloody grazes on Scotty's legs. Most of them were superficial, but a few would likely scar and there were several that looked deep enough that they might need stitches or butterfly strips. He was busy wrapping a length of gauze around one of the deeper cuts over Scotty's left front cannon bone when the sound of boots and voices signaled John and Lestrade's return. 

"—sort of drug would be my first guess, but I have no idea what it could be. Temp's elevated, blood pressure's high. He's sedated pretty heavily, but they're wearing off faster than they should. For his sake, I want to get Scotty to a clinic for monitoring and palliative care. The ambulance may be overkill, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. Billy?" 

"Here John," Sherlock said, straightening up slowly, mindful of Scotty's unhappy snorts and whickers. Lestrade stood on John's right, his anxiety almost palatable, despite his professional demeanor. A fit-looking older man with a neatly-trimmed white beard stood on John's left. 

"Dash, this is Billy Scott, equestrian behavioral expert. Billy, I'd like you to meet Doctor Dashiell Danger," John announced, pronouncing the last name with a short 'a' sound so it came out as 'daan-ger' instead of a noun that meant 'the risk of sudden and/or grievous bodily harm'. "Doctor Danger runs one of the few equine ambulance services for the state of Texas." 

"Pleasure," Sherlock said, tipping his hat politely. 

"Likewise," the man returned, before glancing over at John. "So...how do you want to do this?" 

"Muzzle so he can't bite if the sedatives wear off while we're transporting him, and a pair of standard hobbles so he can't run," John replied. 

"Gotcha," Doctor Danger confirmed. "Beth, Sam, you two get hobbles on him. I'll bring the trailer 'round so he won't have to walk so far." 

"Actually," John interrupted, "let us do that. We've been working with him a bit longer. Billy here observed that he seems frightened, rather than angry. The fewer people handling him, the better he might respond." 

"Your call, John," the other vet said, stepping back. 

"Here Billy," John said, passing over the muzzle before climbing over the stall door. "Slip this on him while I replace the scotch hobble with a pair of two-legged hobbles. Nice work," John added, catching sight of Sherlock's temporary bandages. "You make a pretty good nurse. Those will help a lot until we can get him to a clinic." 

"Of course," Sherlock replied, absurdly pleased by the compliment. 

"Is that really necessary, John?" Lestrade asked, watching John buckle the nylon-and-neoprene bands around Scotty's legs, taking care to avoid placing them directly on top of bandaged areas. 

"Unfortunately yes," John replied. "Normally I wouldn't do this, but until we know what we're dealing with, I don't want to take any chances of him getting loose or attacking somebody." 

"Is he used to being blindfolded?" Sherlock asked from where he was carefully affixing the muzzle to Scotty's head. 

"Yes," Lestrade said. "It's something police horses are exposed to during training, just in case the need ever arises." 

"Good. That will make things easier," Sherlock replied, studying the way Scotty's eyes were still wide with panic. "John, can you pass me one of your oversized pocket handkerchiefs?" 

"You mean a bandana?" John asked, one sandy eyebrow rising. 

"Tomahto, tomayto," Sherlock retorted dismissively, switching between the British and American pronunciations. "There," he continued, folding the large square of fabric into a long strip, draping it over Scotty's eyes and knotting it firmly underneath. "That should help keep him from panicking even more. Lestrade, you lead him to the trailer. And talk to him! The sound of your voice and your scent should help keep him calmer." 

"Right. Let's do this," Lestrade said as he and another officer opened the stall door. The broken hinge caused the door to sag and the metal-clad wood screeched as it was dragged over the concrete floor. "It's okay boy," Lestrade said soothingly as he stepped forward to take one of the two lead lines that Sherlock had helpfully fixed to Scotty's muzzle. "Donny, you take the other side," Lestrade ordered. "Come on boy. You're gonna be just fine…" Lestrade said, continuing to softly murmur reassuring platitudes to his horse as he led him down the aisle and towards the waiting ambulance. 

"Right. I need to go with them. Are you coming with or?" John asked, his voice trailing off. 

"Actually, I want to stay here and examine the stall in more detail," Sherlock replied. "It's possible Scotty could have accidently ingested something that could explain his behavior. I'll text you if I find anything." 

"Okay then. Here's my keys," John offered, pulling them from his pocket and passing them to Sherlock with far more gentleness than he had displayed earlier. "Take your time. I'll text you the address of wherever we end up. When you're done, you can meet me there and I'll give you a ride back to your truck." 

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, managing to ignore the trace of guilt that John's trusting gesture inspired in him. 

John gave him a wan smile. "No problem. I'm gonna have my hands full as it is. I'll see you in a bit." 

Sherlock watched him hurry off with a pang of regret before turning his attention to the matter at hand. Most of the officers and cowboys had left the barn to follow Lestrade. Judging by the distant noises from outside, Scotty was not going quietly into the trailer. There was one officer speaking quietly into his radio, but nobody seemed interested in examining the stall. After one last, quick check, Sherlock pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and pulled out his pocket magnifier. Examining the stall under a blacklight would have to wait until the overhead lights were off, so he would have to make do with simple observation first. 

Pulling out his mobile, Sherlock took multiple shots of the stall itself for evidence, before settling down to perform a closer, visual examination. He focused his attention on the boards of the stall door first. It was the most obvious point for sabotage, being the side that faced the barn's aisle. 

The wooden boards were cracked and dented from the blows of Scotty's hooves, but there was nothing Sherlock would consider 'interesting' caught on them—no threads, no fibers, no traces of oddly-coloured mud or unidentifiable stains. Dismissing the door as a dead end, Sherlock turned to examine the remains of the heavy-duty feed and water buckets. Both of them had been kicked almost to pieces. The feed bucket had been broken off the wall was lying on its side in one corner. The water bucket was still hanging off its mount, but had multiple cracks from where Scotty had kicked it which in turn had allowed its contents to drain onto the floor. When Sherlock looked inside, however, there was still some water that had pooled to one side. Sherlock checked over his shoulder to see if he was being observed before using a large-gauge hypodermic to collect a sample of the fluid for later analysis. A sample of the feed scattered across the floor was likewise taken. After a few moments of thought, Sherlock collected several scrapings from the buckets, focusing on the areas that were most likely to have had contact with Scotty's mouth. Some form of contact poison was unlikely outside of the elite world of equestrian sports, but as a previous case had demonstrated, people were endlessly inventive when it came to finding new ways to cheat. Sherlock tucked the filled tubes into his boots and stooped to study the floor. 

The bedding was hopelessly muddled and churned up from his and John's boots and the marks of Scotty's hooves. Locating anything that had been dropped—whether plant clippings, crushed pills or anything else would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a very real haystack. But he didn't have a choice. Scotty's sudden attack was the best lead he had. 

Standing up, Sherlock fetched a roll of plastic bin bags and returned to Scotty's stall to crouch down, mentally dividing the floor into a grid of one foot by one foot sections as he did so. Methodically, Sherlock began to run his gloved fingers through the soiled straw, picking up a handful at a time. Each handful was subjected to a careful visual examination for anything unusual before being placed in a bag; one bag per section, which was then tied off and tossed aside. It was tedious work, but keeping the search area small would make it easier to spot potential discrepancies. 

After three hours of painstaking work, Sherlock finally stood up with a groan. His back ached and his nose and eyes were burning from the prolonged exposure to ammonia, and he was only seventy-five percent of the way through the bedding. A stack of sealed bags sat off to one side, mute testimony to his efforts. Grimacing, Sherlock slowly peeled off his gloves, noting with some surprise that he was alone in the cavernous barn. A quick check of his phone revealed a flurry of text messages from John. 

_@ Bluebonnet Clinic. Corner of N. Umbreland & Lauriston._

_Find anything?_

_It's almost 3._

_Billy? Call me?_

There was also one from Donovan. 

_Lstrd called. B in my ofice 2morw @ 10. SD_

Sighing, Sherlock shot off a quick text to Donovan, responding in the affirmative and then dialed John's number. It rang for several long minutes before picking up. 

"'Ello?" John asked, his voice sounding sleep-slurred. 

"John? It's me." 

"Billy?" John replied, yawning. "Sorry. Where are you?" 

"I just finished up at the barn. How's the patient?" 

"He's a bit better—calmer now, though that may be the ketamine Greg's vet decided to give him. We'll see how he is in a few hours. Have you found anything?" 

"No," Sherlock replied. "I'm maybe three-fourths of the way through the bedding and I haven't found a single clipping of anything unusual. Unless it was something that he managed to eat the entirety of. Have any of the tests turned up anything yet?" 

"Not yet," John replied, the trace of another smothered yawn evident in his voice. "Sorry. I was catnapping. Doctor Früh sent in a bunch of samples to a twenty-four hour emergency lab. We hope know more in the afternoon, once she gets the panels back." 

"I want to see them," Sherlock stated. He fully intended to run his own tests on the specimens he'd acquired. If the results were similar to what the other vet's looked like, it would go a long way towards proving John's innocence, while the converse would be true if they differed significantly. 

"So how much longer do you think you'll be?" 

"I'm not sure. Maybe an hour?" 

"Okay. Call me when you get here. I'm gonna go spell Greg for a bit so he can have a break." 

"Understood. Goodbye John." 

Sherlock tucked his mobile back into his pocket, redonned his gloves and resumed his careful examination of the bedding. 

His patience was rewarded after almost forty minutes of work when his fingers brushed over something that was decidedly the wrong shape and texture to be a piece of manure.

Sherlock brushed the straw aside and used one of the scalpels to carefully peel the item up from the puddle of mostly-evaporated urine that had helped adhere it to the floor so he could it up with a pair of tweezers. He held the item up to the light to better see and his eyes narrowed in contemplation. 

There were 'Smoking Prohibited' signs all over the barn. Fire was a dangerous enough foe for farmers and ranchers in the ordinary course of business, but in a barn—especially one packed full of highly flammable hay, straw, chaff and livestock inclined to panic when faced with a fire—the risks were exponentially greater. 

So what was a smashed and mostly-burned cigarette butt doing inside of Scotty's stall? 

~*~


	17. Trouble Brewing...

~*~

"For fuck's sake!" Donovan swore as she flipped on her office light and caught sight of Sherlock. "You again?" Donovan demanded, her normally faint Cockney accent significantly more prominent than usual. "I thought we said ten! It's barely eight!"

" _You_ said ten," Sherlock replied, not looking up from the preliminary toxicology report he was rereading on his phone. "I know for a fact, however, that you don't have any meetings prior to ours and I didn't feel inclined to waste my time waiting. Your coffees—plural—are beside your computer—" Sherlock said, waving one hand to indicate the two large paper to-go cups "—which I have not touched, you will note. There's a sausage roll too if you're wanting some protein since I've been informed that it is not technically possible to exist on coffee alone."

Donovan snorted. "Watch me," she muttered under her breath. "More importantly," she added, slightly louder as she gave Sherlock a reproving look, "how do you know I didn't have any earlier appointments?"

"Secretaries are founts of information," Sherlock replied, flicking his left hand dismissively. "Especially if you play them right." It wasn't strictly accurate—he'd looked at the desk calendar lying buried under different files and the sticky notes stuck to the edge of Donovan's computer screens—but incriminating somebody else made it less likely that Donovan would assign the blame solely to him.

"Remind me to talk to our training department about that," Donovan grumbled, unknowingly confirming Sherlock's hunch as she hung up her jacket. She set her bags down and moved around her desk to pick up the first of the paper to-go cups. "Ground Zero, huh?" Donovan asked rhetorically, reading the label on the side of the cup aloud. She took a cautious sip and blinked twice, her eyes going wide. "Oh. My. God. What is this?"

"Quadruple single origin espresso, made with Sumatra Lintong beans and two raw sugars. No milk."

"Okay. You've managed to avoid the B and E charge. This time, at least. This is amazing," Donovan said, taking another sip of her coffee and letting the liquid swirl around her mouth like a sommelier taste-testing an exceptionally rare vintage. She exhaled through her mouth, no doubt savoring the coffee's various nuances. "I had no idea coffee could be this good."

"That's because you clearly veer to quantity over quality in your coffee choices," Sherlock replied with a derisive sniff, taking a sip of his own, perfectly brewed cup of Yorkshire Gold loose-leaf tea. Finding his favorite tea in what Mycroft had referred to as "the utter void of civilisation," had been an unexpected boon in his coffee date with Molly Hooper.

"Shut it, Holmes," Donovan retorted, but there was no real animosity in her voice. She took another swig of her coffee, her eyes drifting closed in apparent pleasure. 

Sherlock spared a moment's mental smirk at the way his offering had been received. Cook had once claimed that 'the way to a man's heart was through his stomach.' Ridiculous notion. The anatomy textbooks in the library had made it clear that up and under the ribcage was a more effective option, as he'd taken pains to point out until Nanny had swept him away. As a metaphor, however, the same ploy of pacifying a dangerous animal with food could be applied with equal effectiveness to a caffeine addict and her drug of choice. 

"Right," Donovan announced, forcing her eyes open and moving around to take her seat. She flipped the computer on and logged in before turning to face Sherlock. "Since you clearly aren't here to socialize, what've you got?"

"Initial toxicology results on the blood samples I secretly collected from New Scotland Yard last night," Sherlock announced, passing a paper copy of the report he'd been studying for Donovan's perusal. "I forwarded some samples to a lab I sometimes utilize—" (and the fact that he had to thank Mycroft-cum-Anthea for planning ahead for such a contingency was aggravating in the extreme. He was going to owe his brother's external, backup brain an enormous tub of Haribo Starmix when he got home). "—New Scotland Yard is definitely displaying the same behavioral symptoms as Devil's Blaze and the late Cream Soda: excessively dilated pupils, inflamed sclera, and unusual aggression. He also has the same elevated cortisol, adrenaline and testosterone levels that were detected in Devil's Blaze."

Donovan's expression was a blend between a smile and a grimace—as though she couldn't decide between pleased at the information Sherlock had acquired or vexed by the unorthodox and somewhat duplicitous methods he'd used to secure same. She skimmed the paper, her lips forming a little moue of concentration before setting it off to one side of her desk. "Right. I'll keep that for comparison against the official results. What else?" 

"Thus far, tests have failed to reveal the presence of morphine or other opiates that might cause him to act out," Sherlock reported grudgingly. "I also visually examined the straw in his stall and the hay in his manger. There was no obvious sign of yew, locoweed or morphine in his feed...but that doesn't mean that there isn't something there to find. I _need_ access to a lab, Detective, if I am to run my experiments properly."

Donovan gave him an exasperated look. "So you've said. Repeatedly. The fact that you aren't on the payroll makes that kind of hard to swing by the brass, though." Sherlock glowered, and Donovan held up a hand. "I didn't say it was impossible—I'm waiting on a phone call back, but in the meantime, you'll just have to cool your heels." 

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. 

"Anything else?" 

"Interestingly enough, yes. It's possible New Scotland Yard may have been exposed to whatever this substance is on at least one prior occasion." 

"Oh? How so?" 

"While we were triaging New Scotland Yard, Captain Lestrade made an offhand mention of his horse previously acting uncharacteristically 'spooky' around some bull rides." 

"And when was this?" Donovan asked, scribbling a note down on a pad.

"The night Johan Straker was killed," Sherlock admitted reluctantly. "Doctor Watson apparently examined Captain Lestrade's horse, but he couldn't find anything wrong at the time." He hadn't forgotten Molly Hooper's mention of John being at the fairgrounds either. More potentially incriminating than John's examination of Scotty was the fact that _John_ had been the one to suggest that Molly seek Candii Ross's erstwhile employee in the building where his corpse had ultimately been found. Sherlock pressed his lips together, holding the words back. If Donovan was currently unaware of the connection—however tenuous it was—then he certainly wasn't going to inform her of it. Not until he'd completed his own investigation first. 

"Did he now?" Donovan asked, blinking in apparent surprise. Pursing her lips, she added "Captain Lestrade didn't inform me of that fact. That his horse was acting up, or that Doctor Watson examined him." 

Donovan's tone was rife with speculation and Sherlock found himself on the defensive. "It's hardly conclusive proof of John Watson's guilt," Sherlock hurriedly pointed out. "I still believe that Sterndale, or perhaps one of Candii Ross's business rivals is a more probable suspect." 

"And why is that?" Donovan asked suspiciously. When Sherlock didn't immediately answer, Donovan narrowed her eyes. "Coffee's all well and good, Holmes," she said, tapping the cup meaningfully, "but you're on this at my sufferance. Either keep me informed, or you're out. Are we clear?" 

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. "I was with Doctor Watson when Lestrade called about Scotty." The last bit was admitted almost warily in anticipation of how Donovan would react. 

He wasn't wrong. 

"Weeerrrre you now?" Donovan drawled, one eyebrow ascending towards her hairline. 

"It's nothing like that," Sherlock said stiffly. 

"It better not be," Donovan said warningly. "If you wreck my case because you suddenly couldn't keep your dick to yourself—" 

"Doctor Watson simply contacted me to discuss an equine patient that was suddenly acting uncharacteristically aggressive," Sherlock retorted, feigning outraged indignation both to cover how he really felt and hopefully alleviate Donovan's suspicions. "He thought it might be related to whatever is affecting Devil's Blaze and now New Scotland Yard—it wasn't by the way—" Sherlock added in response to Donovan's narrowed eyes. "Afterwards Doctor Watson bought me dinner as an expression of his gratitude. We were eating when Lestrade called, and unless physicists have made significant progress with one of Einstein's theories, there is currently no way for a person to be in two different places simultaneously." 

"That's still not doing much to prove John Watson's innocence," Donovan pointed out, with the tone of one familiar with playing the devil's advocate. "Especially in light of what I found out the other day." 

"What do you mean?" Sherlock demanded. 

"Just that I ran a credit report on Doctor Watson," Donovan said, tapping the tip of a pen against a notepad. "It turns out Doctor Watson has a _very_ compelling reason for possibly accepting money under the table." Donovan's lips thinned into a tight smile in response to Sherlock's narrowed eyes. "He's carrying a lot of debt," she explained. "At the same time—according to the credit report at least—he's been able to make some pretty large payments on those debts. He also has a decent chunk of cash stashed away in a bank account." 

"What's your point?" 

Donovan gave him a reproving look. "You know what my point is—same as Greg. You just don't wanna think about it. The pattern's clear—and more than a little bit suspicious." 

"He's a competitive bronco and bull rider. I've seen his belt buckle. Quite a few of those events award large cash prizes to the victors; it's one of the reasons the rough stock breeding industry is so competitive. It's entirely possible that John's using his winnings to pay back his debt," Sherlock argued. But even to his own ears, his argument sounded weak. 

Donovan raised her own eyebrow, and Sherlock mentally cursed himself for the slip of using John's first name, rather than his professional title. It was a little thing, but it undermined his credibility as an independent witness. "Did you run any other credit reports?" Sherlock demanded, hoping to redirect Donovan's attention. 

"I did actually," Donovan replied. "I contacted Straker's bank and got copies of his financial statements for the last six months. Very interesting reading," she added, tapping a forefinger against her desk. "If he wasn't dead, he'd almost certainly be under investigation for structuring, and possibly for tax evasion as well." 

"How so?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to one side. "I am not familiar with American taxation or banking rules." 

"I'll summarize then. For starters, Straker wasn't just underreporting his winnings, he was underreporting them by a _lot_. Straker had three different accounts at that one branch alone. The paper trail led me to a few other banks and I was able to get account statements from there as well. There's a pattern of him making regular cash deposits spread out across multiple accounts, but they're all in different amounts, so none of them triggered an SAR." 

"A what?" 

"A 'Suspicious Activity Report," Donovan explained. She picked up the second coffee Sherlock had brought and took a quick sip. "It's an American financial reporting rule," she continued, setting the cup back down. "Transactions over ten thousand dollars or just under are supposed to be reported by banks on the off chance they may be related to drugs or possible terrorism. But Straker varied his deposits so the pattern only shows up if you look at multiple accounts side by side." 

"Candii Ross's staff have all stated that Straker was a gambler," Sherlock pointed out. "And I did point out that he was cheating." 

Donovan shook her head. "I cross-referenced the deposits against the payout reports for multiple well-known bull rides. The numbers don't match up." 

"How much more?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to one side. "A few thousand quid?" 

Donovan snorted. "Try a couple hundred thousand quid. Beats me why he was still working for Ross. He could have easily bought himself a nice spread somewhere and lived off his savings." 

"Fascinating. I want copies of the statements." 

"Forget it, Holmes," Donovan snapped. "It's bad enough that you're looking through confidential police files. There's no reason for you to be looking through Straker's bank info." 

Sherlock's lip curled. Donovan admittedly had a point, but it was still irritating to be constrained. He would simply have to ask Jim to forward him copies of the relevant information when he got back to his cabin later. "What about Sterndale? Have you learned anything new there?" 

"No." 

"I haven't either. My...contact hasn't been in touch recently." 

"I am going to pretend that I didn't hear that," Donovan muttered. "Speaking of contacts, though—" she paused and quickly logged into her email account. "—Sergeant Iminathi Naidoo—" Donovan said, pronouncing the name carefully, "—with the South African Police Service sent me some files about that Melba Toastya case you mentioned previously." 

"Did she now?" Sherlock asked, pressing his lips together in a slight frown. Mycroft was almost certainly behind the email. He pulled out his mobile and fired off a quick text to his brother demanding an explanation why he hadn't received the information first. 

A few moments his phone beeped with a response. 

_Because you are not actually authorized to arrest people, brother mine. M_

His phone beeped again. 

_Also, Captain Fourie still begrudges you for your part in the Carruthers and Woodley affair. M_

Sherlock felt his expression becoming mulish. A moment later, his phone beeped yet again.] 

_Sulking doesn't become you, brother mine. M_

Sherlock glared down at the screen. It was aggravating in the extreme to be so easily anticipated by his elder brother. And played. He knew what Mycroft wanted in exchange for the information he was withholding, but the requisite answer was galling. Still glaring, Sherlock slowly moved his thumbs over the keypad. 

__Fine,_ he texted back. _May I have a copy of the files? SH__

And waited. 

When he didn't receive a reply, he slowly typed out another message. 

_Please. SH_

A moment later, his phone chimed, signaling the receipt of an email with an attachment. 

"Are you done?" Donovan asked abruptly, distracting Sherlock from the scathing follow-up text he was composing. 

Sherlock looked up from his mobile screen to see the detective eyeballing him the way Mrs. Hudson did when Sherlock tracked mud and worse over her freshly-hoovered carpets. "Sorry," Sherlock replied smoothly, saving the message to the drafts folder for later. "I was requesting a copy for my own analysis." 

"Rude. You could have just asked," Donovan pointed out, folding her arms and giving Sherlock a sardonic look. 

Sherlock fought back the urge to roll his eyes, knowing it wouldn't do anything to improve his chances. "Please." 

Donovan snorted, clearly not buying either his apology or plea, but she reached over for a manila folder and dropped in front of him anyway. "There's not a lot to go on," Donovan warned him as Sherlock began thumbing through the folder's contents. 

Sherlock's lips thinned. He'd already seen the blurry photocopies of the newspaper clippings reporting Melba Toastya's death and the discovery of William D. Shire's submerged car in the Shallows of the Durban Bay. The obituary of the deceased groom, however, was new. He plucked it free of the file to read it. 

_Jakobo Straakr, a horse trainer and long-term resident of Musgrave, Durban died unexpectedly on July 2, 1986 at the age of 29. He is preceded in death by his parents, Mattheu and Zinhle Straakr. He is survived by his younger brother, Johan. Jakobo graduated from the prestigious School of Equine Management Excellence located on the Summerhill Stud thoroughbred breeding farm near Mooi River. After graduation, Jakobo quickly found employment at the Greyville Racecourse where he remained until his death. Jakobo was a devoted guardian to his younger brother and encouraged his younger brother to follow in his footsteps as a horse trainer. Jakobo was highly respected in his field and his skills in working with horses will be missed. Services will be held on Sunday at 3:00 p.m. at the St. Thomas Anglican Church, 190 Saint Thomaslaan, Musgrave, Durban. Donations to Johan Straakr's education fund may be made in lieu of flowers._

"Joe Straker, Johan Straakr. The name's slightly different, but it seems a bit too much of a coincidence to be random," Donovan commented, voicing Sherlock's personal thoughts aloud. "Especially since Joe Straker's brother died in South Africa in 1986. The difference in the name could be attributed to Americanization." She shrugged in response to Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "It's not uncommon; especially among immigrants seeking to assimilate rapidly." 

"It is entirely possible that they are the same person," Sherlock admitted. "It's also interesting that both men died the same way; killed by a panicking horse." He shuffled the papers and pulled out the handful of photographs taken of the scene, which he laid on Donovan's desk on top of Donovan's other files. Ignoring Donovan's eyeroll, Sherlock slid his pocket magnifier open. To his surprise, Donovan reached over and flicked on her desk lamp. Sherlock spared her a brief nod of appreciation at the increased light before bending forward to study the images. 

Jakobo's body lay off to one side. It had been covered with a horse blanket. The stall itself was a bloody wreck of broken boards and gore, but there was nothing useful he could discern from the frozen scene. The next few pages were copies of the official autopsy reports. The listed cause of death for Melba Toastya was humane euthanasia via a bullet through the lower thorax since the horse suffered an acute, open fracture of the left foreleg. Shooting a horse through the chest was a seldom-used technique: if a horse had to be euthanized via a bullet, the skull was the preferred target, but in this case, Sherlock could understand why they hadn't. It was impossible to test destroyed brain tissue for the rabies virus and the resulting...splatter would increase the potential exposure to the virus itself. 

According to the rest of the report, Melba Toastya had ultimately tested negative for rabies. Tests for morphine other drugs had likewise come back negative and the contents of his gut and stomach proved to be unremarkable. There was also a note mentioning that there were traces of some sort of unidentified ash in Melba Toasta's nose and lungs. Sherlock pursed his lips, slotting the new information into his mental files even as he picked up Straakr's report. 

The human medical examiner's report stated that Straakr had died of multiple instances of blunt force trauma consistent with blows from a horse's hooves. There was no indication of foul play. Nor was there evidence of alcohol or other narcotics in Straakr's system. Interestingly enough, the medical examiner had noted the presence of microscopic particles of ash in Straakr's nose and lungs, despite Straakr's medical history listing him as a non-smoker... 

_Oh!_ Sherlock thought, his eyes widening as several disparate pieces of information suddenly clicked into place similar to a rearrangement reaction in organic chemistry. 

"You're making the face," Donovan announced abruptly, pointing with the hand that wasn't holding a coffee cup. 

"What face?" Sherlock asked absently, picking up the file again and shuffling through the remaining papers to see if there were any unreviewed medical records present. 

"The face my brother does when he's figured something out. Or when somebody drives by in a restored classic Bentley from the fifties. The one that most people get when they've just had an orgasm. Spill," Donovan ordered. 

Sherlock shoved the file aside with a huff. Apparently, the pathologist responsible for the equine autopsy hadn't seen fit to run a full hormone panel. Never mind. He still had samples from living equines that he could test. "Look," Sherlock began, launching into his observations rapid-fire, unintimidated by the glaring detective across the desk from him. "I mentioned previously that I was looking for smoke, and you quipped back with something about fire. Both Straakr and Melba Toastya were found to have traces of ash in their respiratory system; a highly unusual substance to find, considering the risk a fire presents in a barn. Brenda Tregennis mentioned that a man was smoking outside the barn—coincidentally around the time that her horse, Cream Soda started acting up. Brenda also reported a 'weird' smell and that somebody walked by Cream Soda's stall while smoking. A video online posted by EquineadvoKat of Cream Soda showed the horse acting up in proximity to a lit cigarette, confirming Brenda's testimony. In my professional experience, most of the equine medications or performance enhancers that I have encountered were administered orally, intramuscularly or intravenously. But I know I mentioned the possibility of aerosol distribution as a vehicle earlier." Sherlock leaned forward, his hands gesticulating wildly. "What if someone figured out a new drug that could be administered via nasal insufflation? One that drove the targets insane with fear or aggression when inhaled?" 

"What? Like the G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate and Reavers in Firefly?" 

"The _what?_ " Sherlock asked, thrown by the non sequitur. 

"Nevermind," Donovan said, shaking her head. "It's a TV show." 

"Dull," Sherlock sniffed dismissively, waving a hand. He had no need for pop culture references in his line of work and absorbing the knowledge would only take up valuable space on his mental hard drive. "Focusing back on the case, there are countless substances that are smoked by individuals wishing to experience their effects: marijuana, peyote, cocaine, phenylcyclohexyl piperidine, methamphetamine...Some substances—while they produce no negative effects when used in small amounts—can produce violent or aggressive behavior if the user exceeds the recommended dosage. Don't you see? It's the only explanation that makes sense!" 

Donovan blinked. And blinked again, visibly translating Sherlock's explanation into common vernacular. "Are you...seriously telling me that somebody's making these horses huff drugs?" she asked skeptically. "And these drugs are making them act like a junkie that's OD'd PCP or Meth?" 

"An imprecise description," Sherlock replied, waving a dismissive hand, "but essentially yes." 

"But we don't have any idea what it is, and we don't have any samples." 

"I don't know _yet_ ," Sherlock corrected her. "I took swabbings of New Scotland Yard's nose, but I have yet to examine them for traces of ash particles. I also want to speak to New Scotland Yard's vet and see if she's discovered anything." He deliberately did not mention the mangled cigarette he'd found in New Scotland Yard's stall. If his hunch was right, he wanted to run his own tests first before the potential evidence was confiscated. 

"Fair enough," Donovan replied, acquiescing. "You can ride with me when I head over there in a bit. Speaking of EquineadvoKat—or, should I say, Kitty Riley—she's been a busy little bee." 

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, reassembling the documents into a neat stack, which he tucked back into the manilla folder. He would save the possibility of nicking them for later if Mycroft did not send him the promised files. 

"Yeah," Donovan said, her lip curling in contempt. "I got the alert early this morning," she explained as she accepted the proffered folder. She set it back in a stack with several others before typing in an internet address on her keyboard one-handed with a speed that Anthea would have admired. The other hand resumed its death grip on the coffee mug. 

"Here," Donovan said, helpfully turned the computer's screen so that Sherlock could see the web page. "I don't know if she was actually there last night," Donovan continued, "or if somebody simply forwarded her the photos, but she's promising another exposé piece about how rodeos abuse horses. Nevermind that this was a case of somebody attacking a police horse, it makes for excellent clickbait press." 

Sherlock winced as he stared at the photographs displayed on Donovan's oversized monitor: they were damning. The most prominent one was titled 'STOP THE ABUSE!!!' It depicted a blindfolded and muzzled New Scotland Yard being led out of the barn in hobbles. The residual crimson gore streaking the Appaloosa's coat and legs stood out in vivid contrast to the white gauze and pale hair. Another picture showed an angry-looking John barking orders, while a lurid caption asked viewers if they'd trust their baby with this man. A third, rather blurry photo showed Sherlock rushing into the barn with the hobbles and muzzle. As Donovan had mentioned, everything—from the captions to the angling of the photographs was slated to imply that the event had been a rodeo. A neat—if misleading—trick. 

Frowning, Sherlock used his phone to navigate to the site. He skimmed over the brief, sensationalized summaries before focusing on the new addition to the web page, a 'submit' button that urged readers to 'Help Stand Up For Abused Horses With PRESS! Send Us Your Photos And Stories!!! Informants Will Remain Completely Anonymous!!!!' "The officer that made the initial call described the witness that approached her was Caucasian, with red hair," Sherlock mentioned. "It's an admittedly vague description, but it's possible that Kitty Riley was present last night." 

"Great," Donovan said, closing her eyes. "She won't cooperate willingly. It'll take a warrant, and there's no guarantee it'll reveal anything useful. I'll talk to Deputy Davis, see if she remembers anything else—" Donovan's desk phone rang and she left off in favor of answering it. "Hello? Yes, this is she. Is he now?" Donovan raised both eyebrows, holding up one hand to forestall Sherlock's barrage of questions. "They are? Alright. I'll be right over." 

"A breakthrough?" Sherlock asked. 

"Perhaps. That was Doctor Früh's assistant at the Bluebonnet Clinic," Donovan announced, shutting down her computer with impressive speed while also juggling the half-drunk coffee, a small digital recorder and her purse. "Apparently they've gotten some of their panels back. Doctor Früh wants to talk to Greg and me. You can come too. Let's go." 

~*~

The drive to the clinic was relatively quick. Sherlock distracted himself from Donovan's dull driving by pulling up the PRESS website on his phone and clicking through the different photographs. They were all taken from outside, showing the milling crowd, the panicked horse and the efforts of John Watson and others to load Scotty into the trailer. Unfortunately, the resolution of the tiny screen made it difficult to parse the images. He would have to study them in more detail on his computer. There was a faint chance that he might be able to discern something useful.

Donovan parked and strode towards the building's main entrance, her heels clicking loudly against the pavement. Sherlock followed close behind, absently noting the clean, utilitarian lines of the metal and brick building as he walked. The clinic wasn't an unattractive structure, but the simplicity and emphasis on functionality over aesthetics were striking. Especially when contrasted against elaborate gardens, stonework and tinted glass of Leon Sterndale's practice. 

The sleek, modern appearance and monochrome colour palette continued inside the lobby, all cream tile and soft gray walls, accented here and there with pots of desert succulents. Sherlock took a covert sniff and nodded in satisfaction. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and antiseptic. That was good. He'd been to other clinics where air fresheners were liberally sprayed to mask the odour of urine and manure. Whoever was in charge at this clinic maintained strict hygienic standards.

An absurdly-young-looking receptionist looked up from her computer at the sound of their approaching footsteps. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose and gave them a sunny smile. "¡Hola! Can I help you?"

"Detective Sally Donovan," Donovan announced, pulling out her badge and showing it to the young woman. "Mr. Holmes and I are here about Captain Lestrade's police horse, New Scotland Yard."

"Oh, yes. Doctor Früh mentioned you were coming by. I'll have one of the techs take you back," the receptionist replied, picking up her phone and placing a page.

The summoned tech led them through a warren of hallways until they stopped in front of three heavy-duty stalls. The stalls were set some distance away from the other stalls, an understandable safety precaution. The lower portion of the stalls' walls were wood, while the top portion, including the door, was made of upright stainless steel bars. The gap between the bars was perhaps three inches at the most—with a fine, but no doubt strong, screen lining the spaces between the bars. It was setup designed not only to prohibit any animal inside from getting out, but also to discourage idiots from sticking their fingers through the bars. Large, bright red signs reading 'DANGER: QUARANTINE' were prominently placed on all three stall doors.

Captain Lestrade was sitting in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair opposite of one of the stalls with his head resting in his hands. At the sound of their approaching footsteps, Lestrade looked up. The evidence of his sleepless night and the stress of the past twelve hours was evident in the furrows of his face and the slump of his shoulders.

"Hey Greg," Donovan greeted him. She looked him up and down before folding her arms. "You look like you need coffee," she commented with a wry expression.

Lestrade laughed weakly, sitting up and scrubbing both hands over his face. "Are you offering to share, Sally? Because that's one for the history books."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How is he?" Sherlock demanded with no preamble. Small talk was tedious. He ignored the glare Donovan shot him.

"Stable—no pun intended—according to the vets at least, and hello to you too, you bastard," Lestrade growled, running a hand through his hair. "They've got his blood pressure back down and he's quit trying to kill everything—though that could just be the drugs."

Sherlock stepped closer to the stall to study the somnolent gelding. Behind him, he could hear Donovan and Lestrade beginning to discuss the events from the previous night, but he ignored it as irrelevant. Scotty's condition was far more interesting. 

Somebody—possibly a tech or even possibly John had taken the time to wash the blood off the gelding's coat. The previously-gory wounds were all treated, covered here and there with patches of protective gauze or spray-on bandages. Small patches of Scotty's fur had been shaved away so that monitoring leads for various vital signs could be attached. The hobbles had been removed, as had the blindfold, but a lead rope and heavy-duty cross-ties with easy-unhook latches had been attached to the halter. A small video camera, no doubt attached to monitor somewhere was relaying continuous visual information. Sherlock nodded in silent approval at the restraints and observation setup. The ropes were short enough that it would be difficult for Scotty to rear or risk flipping himself, while the sensors in the monitoring leads ensured that any changes in pulse or oxygen saturation would be noted immediately. The video footage could also be potentially useful; he would have to speak to Candii Ross about the possibility of adding one to Devil's Blaze's paddock. 

He picked up the clipboard hanging off of the stall door and began skimming through the records. John's surprisingly neat handwriting alternated with the hurried scrawl of another individual, listing out symptoms, vital stats, medications, and dosages. The results of the basic drug screens were identical to his own: negative. Unfortunately, Scotty hadn't been subjected to the extensive battery of tests that Devil's Blaze had. Whether that was due to time constraints or the limited means of the police department, though, he couldn't tell. Still frowning, Sherlock looked over to where Lestrade and Donovan had begun arguing in heated undertones.

"—doesn't justify you calling him. He's still a suspect—"

"—the hell should I have called then?"

"—plenty of other vets that—"

"—didn't see him, Sally. He was in a killing mood. I didn't—"

"Lestrade," Sherlock asked, interrupting them both. He ignored the scowl that Donovan gave him in favor of holding up the clipboard by way of example. "Do you know if they've done any blood panels?"

Lestrade shrugged, a wordless gesture that communicated his sense of frustration and helplessness.

"Not helpful," Sherlock snapped, glaring. "I need to see if they're similar to the panels for Devil's Blaze. Who's the vet in charge?"

"That would be me," an unexpectedly accented voice announced. Sherlock and Donovan both turned to face the tall, rangy woman who had addressed them. She was wearing a white lab coat and pale blue scrubs underneath. A laminated photo badge with a fob was clipped to the hem of her shirt. "Detective Donovan, is it?" the woman asked, ignoring Sherlock in favor of offering her hand to Donovan.

"Yes?" Donovan replied cautiously. 

"Doctor Früh. I spoke with you earlier on the telephone. I'm the vet overseeing New Scotland Yard's care."

"Sally Donovan. I appreciate you meeting with us."

"Of course. And you are?" Doctor Früh asked, turning her shrewd gaze on Sherlock. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he studied the woman in front of him, taking in the details of her dress and body language. German, perhaps Swiss-German born. Obviously an established long-term resident. If he were to estimate her age, it would be around his own, perhaps a few years older. Doctor Früh carried herself with the easy grace of somebody accustomed to a great deal of physical activity. There was a smudge of ink on her left hand, probably from updating patient charts or catching up on other paperwork. Her curly brown hair was cut short in a practical, but stylish cut. Her face bore the faint, tell-tale sheen of sun cream, but other than that, her features were utterly devoid of makeup. A competent vet, Sherlock decided. No nonsense. Obviously capable of holding her own. Possibly single, certainly devoted and accustomed to working after-hours at her practice. More concerned with the well-being of her four-footed patients than fashion. 

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Equestrian Expert," Sherlock introduced himself.

"A consulting equestrian expert?" Doctor Früh repeated slowly.

"Mister Holmes is...something of a specialist in cases of horse doping involving novel compounds," Donovan explained, correctly interpreting the vet's puzzled, slightly skeptical expression. "I'm consulting with him since—by our current count—we have at least two—possibly four now—known cases of horses attacking their owners with no discernable cause."

"Ah. Yes," Doctor Früh nodded. "Captain Lestrade tells me you are investigating a case of possible insurance fraud, perhaps poisoning involving another horse? You think that these cases may be related?"

"That's one theory," Donovan answered, shooting a sidewise look at Lestrade. "At this point though, we have too many questions and not enough answers. I'm hoping that you may be able to help us answer some of those questions."

"I will do my best. Where shall I start?"

"What tests have you performed thus far? What samples have you taken?" Sherlock interjected before Donovan could respond. It annoyed him how much emphasis people put on social niceties when there was a case to solve. Besides, Donovan would scarcely have the requisite knowledge to even know what questions to ask. Unlike John. 

Doctor Früh gave him a disdainful look. "As far as samples, we have collected blood, urine and fecal matter," she began. "Those are currently being analyzed by a laboratory. I hope to know more in a few hours. My primary concern, however, is the danger that New Scotland Yard presents to both himself and my staff. As you can see, New Scotland Yard is currently quarantined for rabies—yes, Mister Holmes, I am aware of his current vaccinated status—" Doctor Früh snapped when Sherlock snorted "—this is a standard precaution. New Scotland Yard will be kept under close observation for progression of his neurological signs. If he successfully passes the quarantine period, I will revise my treatment plan." 

"I don't routinely work with horses," Donovan began, shooting Sherlock a warning look as she pulled a notepad out of her purse and flipped it open to a blank page. "So apologies if this sounds like a stupid question, but why are you personally skeptical about this actually being rabies?"

"Mostly because of New Scotland Yard's vaccination history," Doctor Früh explained. "We've administered a rabies booster, but the fact that he was current means that it would be unlikely for him to have become infected. Granted, an equine's individual physiology can differ with regards as to how they are affected individually by certain drugs or diseases, but there is a standard baseline for us to work from. There's also the sudden onset time—in fact, that is why Doctor Watson is arguing so firmly against this being rabies. I've never worked with Doctor Watson before, but his reputation as a veterinarian gives me some faith in his judgment. At his urging, I have ordered a full blood panel and hormone workup for New Scotland Yard, in addition to the drug tests you've already read." Doctor Früh gestured at the clipboard Sherlock was still holding. "And yes, before you ask, I am aware that there is the risk of mixed results considering the sedatives we have given him." 

"What sorts of results are you focusing on?" Donovan asked, jotting down Doctor Früh's answers in some convoluted form of personal shorthand.

"At the moment, I'm focusing on New Scotland Yard's basic metabolic panel—specifically a CBC of the red and white blood cells, his glucose, calcium, electrolyte and lipoprotein levels. I've ordered a test for evidence of West Nile Virus since that is another disease that can make horses act in an uncharacteristically aggressive manner. I am not so much worried about colic as I am about whatever is in his bloodstream, so I have not ordered an ultrasound because his gut sounds normal. Doctor Watson also suggested that I test for hypothyroidism or a surplus of testosterone or a tumor on the pituitary gland. It isn't something I normally check for this early in my diagnostic process, but I may order those tests in the future if Doctor Watson's assessment that this is not a case of rabies is correct."

Sherlock blinked twice, unexpectedly impressed. He'd deduced competence, but he hadn't anticipated a detailed response on par with his some of his own expositions. He opened his mouth in preparation of asking his own questions, but Donovan spoke before he could.

"You've mentioned Doctor Watson several times. I'm aware that he accompanied New Scotland Yard to your clinic. Do you happen to know if Doctor Watson was ever alone with New Scotland Yard?" 

"My presence or the presence of my staff would have meant he wasn't alone," Doctor Früh pointed out dryly, "but yes, Doctor Watson probably spent some time alone with New Scotland Yard."

Donovan dipped her chin, acknowledging the other woman's point. "What about the samples?" Donovan asked. "Did he collect any of those?"

"I do not believe so. Flor was working last night and she performed most of the blood draws."

"I see," Donovan said, writing the answer down on her pad. "Where are samples kept?"

"They are kept in a locked refrigerator until they can be appropriately examined. Why? You suspect Doctor Watson of something?"

"More like we are trying to make sure the chain of custody for any potential evidence is preserved," Donovan replied smoothly. 

Sherlock's lips thinned at Donovan's evasive non-answer, but he really couldn't argue with her logic. Lestrade was not nearly so circumspect. 

"Wait, you're not seriously suggesting John's somehow involved, are you?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"Greg—"

"Look, I'm told you before and I'll tell you again," Lestrade began heatedly. "John's a good man. And my friend. He wouldn't do anything to hurt a horse—"

"That doesn't change the fact that Doctor Watson is still considered a person of interest," Donovan interrupted, folding her arms. "He has the skills, the knowledge and he's been involved in two cases now of horses going crazy—"

"That's circumstantial evidence," Sherlock pointed out.

"Shut it, Holmes," Donovan retorted, without missing a beat. "It's bad enough that you're running around with him, or that Ross has hired him as her new vet. I don't need you to tell me how to do my job. Got it?" Apparently satisfied that Sherlock had been put in his place, Donovan turned back to where Lestrade was glowering. "Look, I know you consider John Watson a friend, Captain Lestrade," Donovan said, modulating her voice to something a little less confrontational, "but he isn't mine. I have a duty to the law. And so do you. Until John Watson is conclusively cleared, I can't run the risk of him compromising my investigation by potentially allowing him to tamper with the evidence. You _know_ that."

"Dammit Sally!" Lestrade exclaimed, rubbing an aggravated hand through his hair. "Why can't you fucking trust my judgment on this?"

"Because your gut instincts won't stand up in court!" Donovan snapped back with equal heat, utterly unintimidated by Lestrade's glare or raised voice. "Whatever case I ultimately bring has to be _solid_. If you're really as good a friend as you say you are, you'll let me make sure he's clear. Coverups do no favors. For anybody. All they do is undermine the public trust."

"Fine," Lestrade growled, folding his arms and looking away. "But for the record, I think you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Noted," Donovan replied coolly before turning back to where Sherlock and Doctor Früh had been observing the exchange with interest. "Sorry."

Doctor Früh shrugged. "I have overheard much worse, though I am inclined to agree with Captain Lestrade's personal assessment. But no matter. Tell me more about this possible poisoning."

"It's purely speculation at this point," Donovan began, glancing sideways at Sherlock, "but Mr. Holmes has some ideas."

"Oh? Do tell."

Sherlock pressed his palms together and fixed his gaze on Doctor Früh's eyes. "Most of my work is focused on recognizing subtle doping tells in high-performance horses and then identifying the compounds used. That is why I was initially hired by Candii Ross. The observational evidence thus far makes it clear that Devil's Blaze and New Scotland Yard were drugged with something. In my experience, well-cared-for horses don't suddenly attack their owners for no reason. At least they don't if their owner has any sense."

"Very true. That is why I checked New Scotland Yard for colic first. Pain is the most likely reason for an animal to lash out."

"Fear is another," Sherlock pointed out. "As are certain drugs. It's well known that some dopamine agonists, such as pergolide, can cause horses to act uncontrollably if the dosage is too large. We both know the dangers of giving a horse fluphenazine. Since standard tests thus far have failed to reveal any known substances, I posit that we are looking for something unique as the culprit. Perhaps something new and synthetic. Perhaps something that is growing around here naturally."

"That is not a bad theory," Doctor Früh agreed. "Though you're certainly not the first to suggest it."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to tilt his head to one side and raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"No. Doctor Leon Sterndale—he's a performance animal vet—called me a couple of weeks ago, asking me to keep an eye out for any rodeo animals that were acting strangely." Doctor Früh's mouth twisted in a moue of distaste. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed with interest at her expression. Was it the request itself, or the requestor that merited such a response? "Did Doctor Sterndale say why?" Sherlock asked, his expression carefully devoid of familiarity. Donovan's poker-face was equally flawless.

Doctor Früh nodded. "He told me was that he had heard reports of livestock poisonings through the grapevine, possibly from eating some weeds, but since nobody knew what was causing it, he wanted to try because of his background in botany. Something that most vets don't have." 

"That seems like something a bit odd for a performance animal vet to take an interest in," Sherlock pointed out, giving Donovan a sidelong look.

"I said inasmuch, but Doctor Sterndale pointed out that ranchers were always discovering new toxic plants. He claimed he'd rather know what he was dealing with before one of his clients accidentally poisoned their million-dollar bull. I mentioned that Doctor Watson was researching something similar," she continued, "but he got a very strange look on his face."

"Strange? How?" Donovan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Frightened almost. But I don't know why." Doctor Früh pursed her lips, before shaking her head and shrugging. "He strikes me as very arrogant. Perhaps he is the type of person that wants to take all the credit for a project. I have encountered those types of men before."

Sherlock and Donovan exchanged another set of glances. 

"When did Doctor Watson start researching toxic plants?" Donovan asked abruptly "And how did you find out about it?" she continued, flipping her pad over to a fresh piece of paper.

Doctor Früh narrowed her eyes in thought. "Several weeks ago, I believe? He said that he'd noticed an unusual cluster of unexpectedly aggressive bovines and was trying to figure out why. He's asked several vets in the area to contact him if they observe something similar."

"Has he now?" Donovan murmured, shooting a look at Lestrade as she wrote down Doctor Früh's comment. 

"What did Sterndale ask you to do if you did see something odd?" Sherlock asked, not liking the implication of Donovan's questions.

"He ordered me to send him blood samples if anything came my way." The irritated expression on Doctor Früh's face made her opinion of Sterndale's demand clear. 

"Have you? Sent the blood samples, I mean?" Donovan asked.

"No. Not yet. I have not even called him regarding New Scotland Yard," Doctor Früh replied, giving the horse a sympathetic look.

"In that case—" Donovan began.

"Don't—" Sherlock interrupted. At Donovan's vicious glare, Sherlock gritted his teeth and fell silent.

"—I would ask you not to," Donovan continued smoothly, "while this investigation is ongoing. It could be evidence."

"Certainly."

"Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation. If possible, I would also ask that you restrict Doctor Watson from having unsupervised access to New Scotland Yard, perhaps restrict access altogether. The fewer details that are shared about New Scotland Yard's prognosis and diagnosis, the better."

'That will be more difficult," Doctor Früh pointed out, "considering that Doctor Watson may come to check on New Scotland Yard, but I shall do my best."

"I appreciate it," Donovan replied. "If you can—" she broke off as her phone began to buzz. Pulling it out of her pocket, she glanced down at the screen. "Sorry, I'll be back. I need to take this call," Donovan excused herself.

Doctor Früh watched Donovan walk away with a bemused expression. "She seems like a very busy woman. She must take her investigations very seriously."

"Donovan's one of the best detectives I know," Lestrade admitted grudgingly.

"You've known her for a while?" Sherlock asked. He'd observed Lestrade and Donovan's professional interactions and their brief argument, but the ribbing over the coffee indicated something else. Something that wasn't quite 'friend' but still slightly warmer than 'collegue'.

Lestrade refolded his arms and shrugged. "Mostly by reputation at first. You stay in any job long enough, you get to know most of the faces. The committed ones at least. Donovan was paired up with one of my old partners when she worked with patrol. She's a stickler for regs. It's one of the reasons she got head-hunted by the Fraud Division. About ten years ago, her attention to detail uncovered a situation where a court clerk was double-billing convicted individuals for fees and surcharges and pocketing the difference."

"I see," Sherlock murmured. A tech came up holding a patient file. With a polite excuse, Doctor Früh stepped away to answer the young man's questions. Sherlock spent a moment eavesdropping, but all he heard was a discussion over the treatment plan for a mare suffering from a hoof abscess. Dull. "Where are you planning on stabling New Scotland Yard once he's released?" Sherlock asked, turning back to look at Lestrade.

"Christ if I know," Lestrade muttered, looking back at his horse, his expression anguished. "John's told me about how crazy Candii Ross's stallion has been and how much work you've been having to do with him. There's a good chance that the department might decide he's too old to be worth rehabilitating and have him put down."

"Let me know what is decided. I might have an idea," Sherlock said. He would have to check with Candii Ross, but if she was amenable, he'd see what he could do to have Scotty transported to the Triple C. Devil's Blaze was a bronco; his natural wildness and overreactions to riders were encouraged. New Scotland Yard, however, was a police horse. He'd been carefully acclimatized to noise and desensitized to fearful stimulus. There was a distinct possibility that he might respond to Sherlock's retraining faster. There was also the fact that Scotty's body language and hair samples could offer valuable clues for identifying whatever drug Sherlock was searching for.

"Yeah. Sure," Lestrade muttered, apparently still more focused on his horse than on Sherlock's words. 

Sherlock frowned, annoyed that Lestrade didn't sound any happier. 

"Everything all right?" Lestrade asked, making a visible effort to refocus as the clicking of high heels heralded Donovan's return.

"Yep. That was Sofia Curtis, over in Forensics letting me know she's got a lab lined up," Donovan informed Sherlock.

"To do what?" Lestrade asked curiously, looking between Donovan and Sherlock, a puzzled crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him," Donovan replied, tilting her head in Sherlock's direction.

"Tests," Sherlock replied instantly. "I want to run screenings for some of the more esoteric doping agents I've encountered over the years."

"If you tell us what we should be looking for, we can arrange for the testing," Doctor Früh offered, coming back on the tail end of Sherlock's announcement. 

"I doubt that," Sherlock replied, "considering many of them will require novel chemical reagents, solutions, and solvents that I developed." He didn't care if he sounded arrogant. It was simple fact, but the looks he received in response indicated his explanation was not well-received.

Fortunately, hurt feelings were not his problem.

"I need four, twenty-milliliters heparin whole blood samples to run a mass spectroscopy screen, two heparinized tubes—no gel clots—so I can double-check for bronchodilators, two ten-milliliter EDTA tubes, two ten-milliliter heparin whole blood tubes—again, sans gel clots—so I can run a Chromatographic Quantitation, four four-milliliter heparinized samples to run basic extracted drug screens, multiple fifty-milliliter samples of urine…" Sherlock began, rattling off his list of necessary samples at a speed that had Doctor Früh's eyes widening as she listened, "—and cold packs and a cooler to transport the samples to my lab," Sherlock concluded. "That should be all. For the moment."

"Are you sure you don't need any other specimens?" Doctor Früh asked coolly, "or are you content to leave my patient with at least a few liters of his remaining blood volume?"

Sherlock fought back a sneer, well aware of Donovan's proximity and her willingness to call him to heel. "As I said earlier," Sherlock began, with what was—for him—remarkable restraint, "I have numerous tests to run. I would rather have the samples I need at hand than interrupt my work by making multiple trips, unnecessary trips."

Doctor Früh snorted. "If you say so. Wait here. Let me garb up and I will collect your samples for you."

"What's the shelf life for your specimens?" Donovan asked thirty minutes later, eyeing the box Sherlock was carrying as the two of them walked back to her car. She unlocked the passenger side door and gestured for Sherlock to take a seat before moving around to the driver's side.

"With the freezer packs, they should be fine for overnight storage," Sherlock replied, juggling the box so he could hold it with one hand while he used the other to open the door.

Donovan nodded, sliding into the driver's seat. "That's good. Since the lab won't be ready for you until after five and that's quite a few hours away."

Sherlock sniffed. He could read Donovan's unspoken subtext of 'and the last thing I need is you underfoot all day while I'm working on other cases,' as clearly as if the detective had spoken it aloud. He glanced down at his watch, quickly calculating driving time to-and-from the Triple C. By his estimation, he had at least two hours he could spend working with Devil's Blaze and still have a comfortable margin of time to shower and change outfits from 'Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Equestrian Expert' to 'Billy Scott, horse trainer' and back again. "Good," Sherlock said aloud. "That will give me an opportunity to collect some of my more specialized apparatuses and chemicals."

"Fine," Donovan replied with a firm nod. "Meet me back at the station no later than five thirty and I'll take you there.

~*~

"Whatever you do, Holmes, remember that you are not a police officer," Donovan announced unnecessarily as she led Sherlock down a maze of hallways and staircases and into the bowels of the building several hours later. She was carrying the box of chemicals that Sherlock had handed her, while Sherlock carried the two insulated carriers containing blood and urine samples from New Scotland Yard, Devil's Blaze, and several other horses from the Triple C.

"I had to go through a mess of regs and red tape and call in a favor to get you access—the downside of working Fraud instead of Narcotics or Homicide—" Donovan continued, "so if you find anything relevant, you report it to me _immediately_. I can't use it as evidence unless I can get it duplicated by one of our guys. Which reminds me, you'll be working under the supervision of forensic toxicologist named Philip Anderson. He's a bit...different, but he's very good at what he does and—"

"Different how?" Sherlock interrupted, stopping short, his eyes narrowing in aggravation. The last thing he wanted was to be saddled with some moron who chewed his nails and hummed off-key, or worse yet, a scraggly-bearded, teeth-sucking idiot with poor hygiene and an unhealthy obsession with artificially-enhanced female breasts. 

"He's on the spectrum," Donovan explained euphemistically, leading them around another corner and down a short hallway, "so his social cues can be a little different. Like I said, though, he is _incredibly_ good at what he does. We never have to worry about accidental cross-contamination in the evidence _he_ tests. The prosecutors love him. More importantly, he agreed to supervise you and it's _his_ lab. Try not to be a complete dick to him. Alright?" 

Sherlock opened his mouth, preparing to argue that he hardly needed a minder, only to be cut off by Donovan holding up a finger. 

"Nope. Not happening. Major Barrymore warned me about what happened in the Baskerville Academy's lab when Doctor Stapleton left you unattended." 

"It was only a small fire," Sherlock huffed, irked by the reminder. "Easily put out. Nothing important was damaged."

Donovan's expression was uncompromising. "I repeat, you will follow the regs, or you will be barred."

"Fine," Sherlock snapped with grudging acceptance. If the regulations got too onerous, he could always ask Mycroft to pull some strings.

Donovan gave him a scrutinizing look before nodding once, firmly. She turned then and stopped before a closed door labeled 'AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY! ALL INDIVIDUALS MUST SIGN IN. PROTECTIVE CLOTHING MUST BE WORN BY ALL VISITORS. NO EXCEPTIONS!' She glanced down at her watch and waited. At the stroke of six, she raised her left hand and rapped firmly on the door with her knuckles. The door swung open to reveal a man wearing a head-to-toe coverall, a mask, goggles and gloves.

"Ah, Detective Donovan, you are right on time." The man stripped off his gloves and awkwardly extended a hand for Donovan to shake. His eyes flickered over Sherlock in a brief, intense study that was disconcerting like Mycroft's, before looking away and focusing on a point behind Donovan's right shoulder. "Who are you?"

"Doctor Anderson, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the expert equine consultant I'm working with," Donovan explained smoothly, turning to indicate Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes is the man who needs to temporarily use space in your laboratory to do some tests for a case that we are working on. Sofia Curtis, in Forensics said you would be willing to help me?" 

"Yes. I am." Anderson turned and offered the same brief, awkward handshake to Sherlock. "I am Doctor Philip Anderson. This is my forensic laboratory. Detective Sally Donovan said you needed my assistance."

"Yes, please," Sherlock replied, studying Anderson in turn, his mind taking in a myriad of details, from the fastidiously clean-shaven face to the careful avoidance of extended eye contact. Donovan's assessment had been accurate. Social interactions for individuals with autism or other neurodevelopmental disorders could be challenging—he'd seen enough of Mycroft's struggles growing up to recognize some of the signs. Forensic pathology as a career choice made perfect sense for a detail-oriented person who wanted to be able to focus on a task with minimal interruptions by other people.

"Come in," Anderson invited them, standing aside to let Sherlock and Donovan enter. 

They hadn't taken more than two steps through the doorway when Anderson flung up a hand. "Stop!" he ordered. "You aren't allowed to cross the red line without first putting on protective clothing," Anderson informed them bluntly, indicating the red duct-taped border that marked out a three-foot-by-four-foot rectangle on the white linoleum. "This is a forensic laboratory and I don't want my samples or possible evidence contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Perfectly," Donovan said. She carefully set down the box she was carrying before accepting one of the two disposable paper coveralls that Anderson held out. She gave Sherlock a warning look and he grudgingly acquiesced. Once they were both properly garbed, Anderson let them proceed. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent admiration of the electron microscope and other top-of-the-line lab equipment they passed as Anderson led them to an empty glassed-in workstation near the back of the lab. The station had been as ruthlessly disinfected as the rest of the lab if the scent of solvents was any indicator. A thick, spiral-bound book of safety procedures sat precisely in the center of the worktop. Boxes full of different sizes of gloves, sterile pipettes, Petri dishes and other basic supplies were neatly arranged on the shelf above.

"You may work here," Anderson announced, gesturing magnanimously at the space he'd prepared. "The under-counter lab refrigerator for this workstation is empty if you have any samples that require refrigeration. I also cleared a section in the cryopreservation unit for you. Waste and biohazard containers are located beside the door. Standard laboratory testing solutions are kept in marked cabinets." 

"My samples are primarily biological," Sherlock announced. "What diagnostic tools do you have at your disposal?"

"Many," Anderson replied, the pride and professional satisfaction evident in his voice. "This lab houses an Agilent 6500 series accurate-mass quadrupole time-of-flight mass spectrometer for solid sample analysis. That machine is located on Bench Delta," he began, pointing to indicate the machine that was clearly marked by an oversized Greek letter printed on fluorescent orange paper that had been taped to the wall above. "I also have an LECO GCxGC multidimensional gas chromatograph for gas samples," Anderson continued. "If your samples are primarily liquid and you need to perform liquid chromatography mass spectrometeries, there is a Shimadzu, LCMS-8050 triple quadrupole located on Bench Gamma. There is a full-spectrum, Amersham Storm 860 molecular imager located at Bench Beta—that's the station at the end of the laboratory. Bench Psi contains an Epsilon Three XLE energy dispersive x-ray fluorescence spectrometer for non-destructive quantitative chemical or elemental analysis of samples. If you need to perform DNA extractions, the 4X50 milliliter swing-bucket rotor Cole-Parmer centrifuge is located over there—that's the bench Alpha over there. A RapidVap Vertex dry evaporator capable of processing fifty samples at a time is located on Bench Omnicron," Anderson concluded. 

"What about microscopic images?" Sherlock asked, thinking of the still-secret fag end he'd collected from New Scotland Yard's stall. 

"If microscopic images are necessary, there is a digital ZEISS Axiocam 503 color three megapixal microscope camera on bench Omega," Anderson replied immediately. "Since these devices are very expensive, it would be best if you prepare your samples and then inform me of what you are looking for so that I can program the settings appropriately. I shall be working at my own station if you need assistance locating anything. Do you have any questions?"

"No," Sherlock said, setting his boxes down on the bench and reaching for a pair of gloves.

"Good," Anderson said with a terse nod. "Then I will return to my work."

"I'll leave you to it," Donovan said once Anderson was gone. "Call me the moment you have _anything_ that might be relevant. And behave yourself, for fuck's sake." She gave Sherlock one last glare, (as if a menacing expression alone would ensure Sherlock's acceptable behavior) before hurrying out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before opening the first of the two insulated containers, revealing the rows of vials of preserved blood and urine he'd collected from the different horses at the Triple C. He pursed his lips for a moment in indecision, before moving to the wall cabinet to select the appropriate chemicals for sample evaporation. It was a process that would most likely take several hours to run. Another batch of samples would be lyophilized, or freeze-dried, which would allow them to be stored at room temperatures without the risk of degradation.

Research (and personal experience) taught that there were a variety of ways drugs or other chemical substance might respond to a test, depending on the solvent used for deliquescence and the degree of heat applied. Some reactions were caustic, even flammable—a reminder that Mycroft periodically brought up, (usually in Mrs. Hudson's presence)—much to Sherlock's chagrin. 

The use of dry heat, nitrogen, and a properly vented unit, however, mitigated some of the risk. 

Sherlock's hands moved through the air like those of a conductor or a magician as he selected the appropriate glassware and carefully measured out the different chemicals for peptide enrichment, protein digestion and the alkylation of cysteines. It would be better if he had a way to take Anderson's lab back to the Triple C with him. It was aggravating to the extreme to be restricted to somebody else's timetable, Sherlock mused as he worked, studiously ignoring the protesting grumble of his stomach. The Work was far more important than his transport's current need for sustenance.

He had just deposited the first twenty vials into the centrifuge when his phone rang.

Sherlock paused, puzzled. Conventional manners dictated that it was a bit late for a telephone call. Not that that had ever stopped him before. He unzipped his coverall and pulled his mobile free of his jacket's inner pocket to see who was calling. 

It was John.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked hesitantly as he answered, automatically shifting his voice upward into Billy's soft northern lilt.

"Hey Billy, it's John. I'm sorry it's so late. Is...this a good time?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, allowing 'Billy's' warmth to infuse his voice. "For you, always," he continued, dropping his voice to a slightly huskier register as he stepped away from the centrifuge. It was unlikely that John would notice the spinning sound in the background and recognize it for what it was, but John was smart. It couldn't hurt to be careful. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I'm calling for two reasons, actually," John said slowly. There was a rustling sound and Sherlock could imagine John standing there, running one hand over the back of his neck. "First, ah, do you want copies of my handwritten notes about Scotty from the night Straker was killed?" 

"Are they not available in Scotty's files?" Sherlock asked, his focus immediately switching from 'flirtation' to 'investigation'. 

"The transcribed ones are, but I tend to jot down my initial impressions in longhand—too much time spent without easy access to a laptop during deployments," John explained. "They aren't nearly as tidy but, well, I thought they might be useful."

"They almost certainly could be." Eyewitness accounts were notably unreliable, but a witness's impressions could still offer valuable insight. Especially if they were written down almost immediately before the human brain had time to re-write the story. "I need a copy as soon as you can get me one. Please," Sherlock added belatedly, recognizing the importance of adhering to social niceties. 

"No problem," John said easily, the smile audible in his voice.

"So what's the other thing?" Sherlock asked, shifting his mobile to his shoulder so he could get another test tube ready. 

"Well, I'm going to be gone this weekend—"

"Oh?" Sherlock interrupted. 

"Yeah. I'm gonna be in Haslet working the Wild West Fest Rodeo. Pretty standard. But when I get back, I was ah…" Sherlock heard John take a breath, audibly steeling himself. "I was wondering if you might be free some evening next week?"

Sherlock could hear John licking his lips nervously as he waited for Sherlock's response and he frowned in confusion. Why would John be nerv—oh. Yes, Sherlock realized, comprehension suddenly dawning. The often overwhelming and base human urge to fornicate. Victor certainly hadn't enjoyed being put off when Sherlock had been absorbed in an experiment or his studies. Judging by the hesitance of John's question, he'd likely had several dates end with disastrous abruptness from John answering his phone and then rushing off to deal with a patient or his sister. He'd even said as much. 

It was illogical, but at the same time, Sherlock felt warmth suffusing him at the realization that John liked him enough to risk calling him up and inviting him out despite the potential for humiliation or at least a blunt brush-off.

"Billy? You there?"

The hesitance in John's voice brought Sherlock back to himself and he realized that he'd yet to respond. "I'd...like that," Sherlock said, feigning shyness as he stared down at the cluttered worktop in front of him, trying to decide what to test next. "That sounds...fun."

"Great!" John exclaimed. Sherlock could hear the relief and enthusiasm in his voice. "Do you want to pick a night when I get back—"

One of the machines started beeping, drowning out what John was saying. With a hiss of irritation, Sherlock dashed over to hit the button that would silence the alarm.

"—the hell was that?" John demanded.

"Oh, my microwave," Sherlock dissembled, refocusing on John. "Sorry, you were saying?" 

"I asked if wanted to pick a night when I get back, or if there was a day you knew would work," John repeated patiently.

"Oh. Um...that's tricky. Weeknights can be a challenge, especially since I have to be up at the crack of dawn..." Sherlock replied, letting his voice trail off hesitantly. 

It was a lie, but it had a purpose. Irene had been the one to teach him the value of playing 'hard to get' both in a personal and professional capacity. "Clients—or suitors—place a greater value on people that can't be easily acquired," Irene had explained one night over champagne and caviar. "I'm very, very good," Irene had confided in him smugly over the rim of her champagne flute. "I'm worth every penny I charge. I like to have fun though...and I have no patience for dull fools. By appearing disinterested or unavailable, I get to pick from the very cream of potential horse-training cases _and_ charge my exorbitant rates. Besides—" she'd added, running one manicured finger up Sherlock's shirtfront before tapping him lightly on the lips, "—the challenge is a turn-on." 

"Yeah. Me too. We can keep it early. No problem. Would Monday work? I'm not getting back until late Sunday."

"Monday I'm meeting with somebody," Sherlock lied. "What about—" There was a scuffling noise from behind him and the sound of a throat being pointedly cleared. Sherlock turned to see Anderson glaring at him with folded arms. "—hold on, John. What?" Sherlock hissed, hitting the mute button on his phone so John wouldn't overhear.

"The sign clearly states that all personal telephone conversations are to take place outside of the lab," Anderson snapped, pointing at the computer-paper sign taped to one wall.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock bit out, before remembering Donovan's warning and—more importantly—his dependence on Anderson's continued cooperation. Unlike Mrs. Hudson, he probably wouldn't be able to wheedle himself back into Anderson's good graces with a box of herbal soothers from an old college contact and a bouquet of daisies if he got kicked out. "Just a moment John, let me move to another room so I can hear you better," Sherlock said, before giving Anderson a curt nod and complying. 

"Okay," Sherlock said when he was standing back in the hallway. "Go ahead."

"You sure?" John asked hesitantly. "I don't want to keep you if you're busy."

"It's fine. I was just dealing with an annoying...insect," Sherlock grumbled. "So, does Tuesday work?"

"Nope. Tuesday I'm scheduled to perform a bunch of calf castrations and vaccinations for a rancher out in Happy. I have no idea how long it might take."

"Oh," Sherlock said softly, letting his voice fall.

"What about Wednesday?" John suggested.

"Wednesday?" Sherlock repeated, calculating quickly. He knew at least two ranch employees left to go to Wednesday evening church services; nobody would blink twice if he left the ranch at the same time. Especially if he was back before it got extremely late. "I can do Wednesday." 

"Great. That's great. Do you want me to pick you up, or do you want to meet somewhere?"

"I'll meet you," Sherlock replied. Bitter past experience had taught him it was advisable to have his own method of transportation. He didn't fancy being stranded somewhere when he inevitably pissed his date off and was told to fuck off like the arsehole he was and leave them alone.

"No problem," John said easily. "Do you, uh, have a preference for where we go? We could get coffee...maybe a beer? Catch a game? There's also a couple of decent bars in the area if you fancy a game of pool..." 

Sherlock pursed his lips trying to think of possible venues. Alcohol might work to lower John's inhibitions and inspire him to answer questions...he would just have to be careful to restrict his own consumption. "I'm...not one much for watching football on the telly, but I do enjoy billiards," Sherlock answered slowly, thinking of the pleasure to be found in the simple elegance of physics and geometry. 

"Billiards? Let's go to the Blue Bonnet, then," John decided aloud. Sherlock imagined John punctuating the statement with a decisive nod.

"What's so special about the Blue Bonnet?" Sherlock asked. 

"It's just a nice little place just off of Main and Santa Fe Trail and I know they have a couple of decent pool tables in the back," John explained. "Plus they do good nachos and beer-battered fries if we get...hungry. Seven sound good?"

Sherlock could hear the warmth and seductive promise in the other man's voice and it was enough to make him flush. "Seven it is then," he managed to garble.

"Great! I'll see you when I get back. I'll be thinking about what I want for dinner. You do the same," John added, with an unmistakable leer in his voice before ringing off. 

Sherlock stood there blinking like an idiot before giving his head a sharp shake, as if the motion would realign his thoughts away from the image of John metaphorically devouring him. He pushed open the lab door, only to stop short. Anderson was standing on the other side, studying Sherlock with the same, intent focus that Sherlock lavished on unusual chemical signatures.

"Now what do you want?" Sherlock demanded, letting his voice return to its natural cadence and register. "I'm done with my call."

"Your voice just changed again," Anderson pointed out unnecessarily. 

"Brilliant observation, Anderson," Sherlock huffed. "What of it?"

"You don't normally sound like that," Anderson continued, oblivious to Sherlock's sarcasm. "And your name is 'Sherlock,' not 'Billy'. Why did you change your voice and name while you were on the phone?"

Mindful of Donovan's warning, Sherlock managed to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. It was a close thing. "Because I am working on a case and it necessitates me being undercover."

"Oh. Like the Narcotics Division and the Child Exploitation Task Forces." Anderson nodded firmly, apparently satisfied with Sherlock's explanation. "Carry on then," he ordered, gesturing emphatically. "I can't stay here all night. More is also accomplished if one focuses on work during work time." The last bit was uttered with a disapproving, almost snide air as Anderson pivoted and returned to his own station.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, fighting back a biting riposte about how efficiency was seldom improved by micromanaging. Fortunately for his teeth, the centrifuge chose that moment to beep. The noise signaled that its cycle had come to an end and that the samples were ready for the next stage. Automatically, Sherlock turned and reached for a fresh pair of gloves and a box of Petri dishes.

Anderson's utterly moronic and overly simplified statements could wait. The Work summoned.

~*~


	18. Cueing for looks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flirting and blowjobs (finally) happen...

~*~

Sherlock parked his borrowed truck some distance away from John's Humvee, wrinkling his nose with disgust at the sloppy parking jobs in the car park. What was the point of even bothering to paint lines on the pavement if they were going to be blatantly ignored?

Tilting down the rearview mirror, Sherlock began fussing with his fringe, making it curl just so. He'd chosen where he'd parked carefully. It was far enough away from the entrance that he wouldn't immediately be spotted when he exited his vehicle, while also offering him a line-of-sight to the front door itself. He could just make out John's form reflected in the mirror's glass.

John was standing outside of the bar's front door, his hands resting on his belt, clearly waiting for something (or someone). The fact that John had apparently arrived slightly early was a positive sign; it signaled both excitement and anticipation. 

_Good,_ Sherlock thought, taking a moment to observe his target before making his presence known.

The vet was clad in nicely fitting jeans. He'd forgone his hat, and both his blond hair and the golden buckle on his belt gleamed in the light cast by the overhead street lamps. John was wearing his customary, dark blue chambray shirt, an item that complemented the colour of his eyes beautifully. As Sherlock watched, three women—two brunettes and a blonde—sauntered down the pavement and towards the entrance. 

While the women favored different styles of blouses, all three wore matching denim shorts, high heels, and flashy jewelry. Their unmistakably predatory prowl as they approached their target reminded Sherlock of nothing so much as a group of lionesses on the hunt and John, the idiot, was their blissfully unaware prey. As anticipated, the women stopped and circled John like the hunters they obviously were. All three were laughing, showing teeth and emphasizing brightly-painted lips in shades designed to evoke the female genitalia. They were too far away for Sherlock to either hear their words or read their lips, but the body language was clear enough.

And lewd. 

Sherlock bristled as he watched the first brunette move into John's personal space. Her ample cleavage clearly on display in the mostly-unbuttoned, short-sleeved plaid shirt she wore.

With somewhat admirable discipline, John kept his eyes focused on the woman's face, (even though he was clearly aware of where she wanted him to look), but he also straightened up and puffed his own chest out in a stereotypical 'cowboy' pose. The change in posture highlighted the depth and breadth of John's torso and was a non-verbal advertisement of his prowess as a potential sexual partner. John's hands also dropped automatically to his belt, his strong fingers framing the golden buckle he wore with pride. It was a gesture Sherlock had noted before, one no doubt intended to draw the eye to the gleam of metal and encourage private speculation about what kind of prize was hidden behind it.

Not that Sherlock had done so.

 _Forgetting all those 'I mustn't tell lies' lines you were assigned to write as punishment already, brother mine?_

_Shut. Up!_ Sherlock snapped, directing his ire to his elder brother's mental ghost. Glaring, he refocused his attention on the tableau outside.

The second brunette had oh-so-casually flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder as she'd moved in and was now draped around John like a clinging vine on a trellis. She was no doubt batting her eyelashes in what she probably intended to be a seductive manner, Sherlock thought scathingly as he saw John smile. Never mind that doing so would simply make her look like she had something caught in her eye, or was perhaps suffering from a mild corneal abrasion. 

The blonde woman—perhaps taking umbrage at the attention her friends were getting—stepped closer and laid a flirtatious hand lightly on John's shoulder. Sherlock gritted his teeth, internally seething as he watched the woman lean forward to whisper something in John's ear. If American women were anything like the drunken idiots he'd encountered in bars during his Uni days, she was undoubtedly chatting John up with banal variations of "you waiting for me, handsome?" or "Well, don't you look all lonesome, all there by yourself. Want me to buy you a drink?" or even more crassly, "you're pretty and I'm horny...wanna fuck?" John tilted his head to one side and licked his lips, perhaps in response to something the blonde had said. Her lips moved again. An invitation? Sherlock couldn't be certain, but John's grin, if possible, grew even wider as he nodded his head in enthusiastic agreement.

And that, for Sherlock, was the last straw.

 _If anybody is going anywhere with John Watson tonight, it's going to be me_ , Sherlock thought waspishly as he hurriedly undid his seatbelt and slid out of the truck. Feigning nervousness, Sherlock looked around the car park before calling out a hesitant, "John?" 

"Over here, Billy!" John called, waving from his station by the door. "Hurry up! I want you to meet a few friends of mine!"

Fixing his expression in what he hoped would pass for a pleasant smile, Sherlock shuffled closer and ducked his chin bashfully. "Um...hi."

"Billy, I'd like you to meet Mary-Ann, Renée, and Carley," John said, indicating each person as he made the introductions. "Ladies, this is my friend, Billy. He's new to the area...and green...so be nice to him, all right Renée?" John added with a pointed look at the woman in question.

"Sugar, 'long as he behaves himself we'll be nothin' but nice," the cleavage-baring brunette drawled. "Right, girls?"

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, taking in the woman's details. _Artificially tanned skin, affected southern drawl, shirt deliberately chosen a size too small to accentuate the size of her breasts..._ but he kept his observations to himself. A quick glance at John had shown that the other man was smiling broadly at the assembled women and Sherlock found himself reluctant to upset him so early in the evening.

"So what brings you two out here tonight?" the blonde—Carley, Sherlock thought—asked.

"Pool. Maybe a beer," John answered for them both. "And you?"

"Girls' night out," Renée replied with a smirk and a saucy wink. "Beaver Creek Trio's playin' tonight and time's a-wastin'," she added with a pointed look at Mary-Ann who huffed and peeled herself off of John. "Have fun playin' with your sticks and balls, okay boys?" Renée cooed as she pulled open the door to the neighboring bar and ushered the other two woman through, allowing the sound of a steel-string guitar and a woman's husky voice to blast out onto the otherwise quiet street. "Oh, John?" Renée added as an afterthought, pausing half in and half out of the open door, "tell H2O we miss her next time you see her, okay?"

"Will do," John replied, his smile looking slightly forced.

"H2O?" Sherlock demanded the moment swung shut. "Who is H2O?"

"My sister, Harry. She's been friends with the Valkyries for years," John explained slowly, looking at Sherlock as though Sherlock's behavior was ridiculous.

"Your sister? Then...what does 'H2O' stand for?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to one side.

John turned an impressive shade of pink and coughed once in what was likely acute embarrassment. "It's her, uh...nickname. Like 'Three-Circuits Watson'?" Sherlock blinked, still not comprehending. Seeing it, John licked his lips once before adding, "the 'O' ah...stands for orgasm...and keep in mind this is my younger sister you're asking about before you ask for more details."

Sherlock put two and two together and came up with what he thought was the appropriate answer. "So...lesbians?" Sherlock posited aloud.

John winced. "They probably wouldn't appreciate you advertising the fact in public, but yeah," he confirmed.

"Oh." Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion as he tilted his head to one side. "Why not?"

John raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Because some assholes—especially around here—think that all a lesbian needs is a good fucking with the right guy's dick to 'cure' her?" 

Sherlock blinked rapidly. He'd anticipated homophobia, but he hadn't expected it to be quite so...entrenched. Or crass. "That is scientifically unsound," Sherlock complained. "Surely people aren't actually stupid enough to believe an idiotic theory devised by a desperate, sexually-depraved moron?"

"They are and they do," John replied, his expression somewhere between disgusted and wry. "Which is why I've served as Renée's or some other woman's beard more than a few times. Some flirting, and—if necessary—the occasional punch or two usually takes care of the worst of them."

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled. "Is that...something you do often?" Sherlock asked, his mind suddenly supplying him with images of John surrounded by aesthetically appealing and scantily-clad women flirting with him...dancing with him...perhaps kissing him… John was handsome...and confident...and gallant...and prior experience proved that John was a very good kisser. Although John had identified the women as lesbians, Sherlock was well aware that human sexuality existed on a spectrum, (despite what Grand-mère's pet priest had claimed during some of his more odious sermons). A blind man could have observed the appreciation Carley had for John's arse. Even _Irene _would probably consider John attractive if she ever crossed his path. She certainly wouldn't have any compunctions about trying to seduce John (if only so she could gloat about it to Sherlock afterwards).__

____

____

A sudden, sick feeling roiled his gut. John had mentioned that homophobia was rampant...if the harassment that lesbians allegedly received was any indicator, then it was probably worse for gay or bisexual men. Admittedly, John had affirmed his interest in spending time with 'Billy', but would that still hold true if Carley or some other conventionally attractive woman started hitting on John in earnest? Victor certainly hadn't had any qualms about abandoning Sherlock once something 'better' or 'safer' came along. 

His features must have betrayed his inner turmoil because John raised an eyebrow and gave a disarming shrug. "Often enough that it's given me a bit of an undeserved reputation." John's expression shifted then, becoming calculating. "Why Billy? You jealous?"

"Not at all," Sherlock huffed, trying—and failing—to cover his mortification at being read so easily. "I just...I mean, I know I'm difficult to get along with...I didn't want to keep you if you suddenly found somebody else you would prefer to spend time…" he stammered, trying to regain his mental footing.

"Not a chance," John purred, licking his lips as he met Sherlock's gaze. "I'm here with you, aren't I?" Still smiling, John stepped back slightly and gave Sherlock an unmistakable once-over. "I probably should have said this from the first, but you look nice."

"Thanks," Sherlock mumbled and ducked his chin, his bashfulness for once unfeigned. He'd admittedly chosen his outfit carefully to project a blend of innocence and sexual appeal, but he hadn't counted on feeling so flustered in the wake of John's compliments. The pink and purple plaid shirt he wore was slightly loose to make his frame appear slighter in comparison. Both sleeves were rolled up in precise folds, leaving his forearms bare. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, allowing John a seductive glimpse of his throat and his suprasternal notch. He was wearing his hat, but he'd added enough product that his carefully tousled curls would survive the experience. Fitted jeans and a pair of dark brown boots—suede brogues, not cowboy boots— finished out his outfit. The heat in John's eyes as he looked him up and down made him wonder how John would react if he saw Sherlock in one of his usual, carefully tailored suits...perhaps a black Spencer Hart with one of his black shirts...or maybe the aubergine shirt instead… "You...like it?" Sherlock asked hopefully, biting down on his bottom lip as he peered at John through his lashes. 

"I do. Very much," John said appreciatively. "I'm just glad I had a chance to snag a shower at the clinic first—I got called out to deal with a minor emergency out by the fairgrounds," John explained in response to Sherlock's raised eyebrow.

"Nothing too serious, I hope?"

John shook his head. "Nah. Just a case of some bull calves getting a bit rowdy. One got tangled up in a barb wire fence. It was a bloody mess, but the calf should be fine. Fortunately, the stitches were pretty straightforward. I'd've hated to show up stinking of sweat and cows when you're standing there, looking all gorgeous," John added, giving Sherlock an easy grin. "You might have told me to get the hell out of Dodge!"

John's smile and tone were cheerfully self-deprecating, but Sherlock sensed there was a unvoiced story lurking behind John's good-natured facade. Some of his breakups must have been spectacular indeed to make him look so self-conscious. Sherlock pursed his lips. That wouldn't do. He needed John to be distracted. Laughing. Happy. Focusing on _him_ and not his patients or previous _inamoratas._

"Is that so?" Sherlock asked skeptically, raising one eyebrow. "Those women certainly didn't seem to mind your scent," Sherlock pointed out. He leaned over and deliberately took an exaggerated sniff of John's neck, which had an unanticipated effect on his libido.

John smelled of something spicy and slightly woodsy. It was enough to make Sherlock think of wood fires, Molton Brown's Re-charge Black Pepper Bodyscrub Bar and skin-warmed silk sheets. It was addicting. He wanted to stay there and steal a taste, but The Work called.

"You smell fine," Sherlock announced, pulling back with effort. "There's nothing offensive at all about your current grooming habits. Besides, certainly you've smelled worse, during your time as a vet? Sweat and bovine lather, while hardly aromatic, are certainly less foetid than oh, say, the odour of a gelding suffering arsenic poisoning, or a pile of manure at the height of summer?" Sherlock abruptly slammed his mouth shut, worried that he'd gone too far, but a quick glance at John's face showed he was amused, rather than offended. 

"Yeah, thanks," John snarked, leaning over and nudging Sherlock's shoulder gently with his own. "That's really flattering to know you think I smell better than a dying horse or a pile of rotting shit. Let's see how you smell, shall we?" John leaned in and took his own exaggerated sniff of Sherlock's throat, though he had to stand slightly on his toes to do so. "Huh," John commented, the puff of his warm breath against Sherlock's skin causing Sherlock to swallow hard. John took another, deeper sniff and made a pleased noise.

Clearly, John approved of the expensive, pheromone-laced cologne he’d applied prior to their rendezvous, Sherlock deduced smugly. 

John pulled back and pursed his lips. "You smell a bit like sweat too," John reported, folding his arms, "but it isn't too bad. You're right. I have smelled worse." He met Sherlock's mock-offended look and burst into delighted laughter. After a moment, Sherlock joined in, his deeper chuckles mixing with John's higher giggles.

"No really. You smell great. Now come on, you," John said when they'd finally finished gigging. "Let's go in before we get ourselves arrested for loitering."

Once inside, John spent a few moments studying the crowd before leading Sherlock towards the back of the room.

Sherlock approved. The bar was a long rectangle subdivided into two areas. The front of the room was filled with booths, small tables and the wood-and-glass bar itself. Three rows of two pool tables each were located in the space beyond. The bar's floor was tiled in red-brown clay, a colour that went well with the exposed brick walls. Various framed pieces of cowboy and sports memorabilia hung between the over-sized flat-screen televisions dotting the walls. It wasn't a very large venue, but the high ceilings made it seem bigger on the inside.

The pool table John was leading them to was the last one in the row arrayed along the room's left-hand wall. Its placement, situated near the corner, offered a bit more privacy than the more crowded tables and booths closer to the bar. There was also—conveniently enough—an unoccupied bar table along the wall. The table's small surface area made it apparent that it was intended to provide a level surface for drinks and perhaps a few appetizers, rather than a meal, but Sherlock was nothing if not ingenious. There were several empty bar stools set out along the wall that could be pressed into service as chairs. It would be the easiest thing in the world to 'accidentally' bump knees, or perhaps slot a thigh between John's once they were seated.

They'd barely taken their seats when a young woman walked over, her ponytail swinging from side to side with the speed of her motion. "What can I get you gents tonight?" she asked, passing out two laminated card stock menus and a laminated beer list.

"Two waters to start," John ordered for them both, "and then I'll take a pint of the Railyard Amber Ale. Billy?"

"Two fingers of Evan Williams Honey Bourbon," Sherlock replied, ignoring the beer menu. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally overindulge and experience a disastrous repeat of the last time he and John were together in a bar. Ordering a drink he could sip, rather than quaff, would reduce the chance of accidentally overindulging.

"Sure thing," the waitress replied, scribbling down their order. "Anything to eat?"

John canted an eyebrow at Sherlock in silent inquiry. "Billy? You hungry?"

"A bit," Sherlock lied. He wasn't, not really, (two slices of Juana's _torta de tres leches_ had seen to that), but sharing food was an age-old custom designed to promote trust. "What do you recommend?"

John pursed his lips consideringly. "There's a lot of good stuff here," he said slowly, "aside from the local beers, I mean. The branding-iron, beer-battered fries are popular. So are the house tortilla chips and salsa. They make the salsa in-house using locally grown peppers and fry the chips fresh."

Sherlock studied the menu, noting the prices. They were slightly on the high side, but not exorbitant—certainly not anywhere near what a restaurant in Greater London might charge—but if what Donovan had said was true, then John was probably accustomed to economizing by only ordering one appetizer. Sherlock hadn't missed the fact that an order of chips and salsa was one of the cheapest items on the menu. Ordering two appetizers would be a bit of indulgence and an easy way to impress the other man without _looking_ like he was trying to impress him.

"We'll take one of each," Sherlock told the waitress. "Put it on my tab. Oh, and hold the bacon on the fries," Sherlock added after a quick sideways glance at John. "You're vegetarian, right? I noticed that the last two times we've eaten together, neither of your entrées contained meat."

John blinked, clearly impressed that Sherlock had remembered such a small detail, but there was no mistaking the pleased smile as he nodded. "Ovo-Lacto vegetarian, but yeah. No bacon would be good." 

"That's no problem," the waitress replied. "Do you want me to see if I can get some extra cheese in place of the bacon?"

"Please."

"Got it," she said, jotting down the customizations to the order. "Now, on a scale of one to ten, how hot do you want the salsa?"

"John?" Sherlock asked, looking over to gauge the other man's reaction.

"That depends," John replied, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. "Do you like spicy?"

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. He did, but it wouldn't quite be in character for a horse whisperer from up north to be accustomed to spicy cuisine. "Sometimes?"

"In that case, we'll have one bowl at level two, but turn the second bowl up to eleven," John informed the waitress with a wink.

The waitress snorted a laugh. "You betcha. I'll be back in just a moment with your drinks."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Clearly, he'd missed something. "Why'd she laugh, John?" Sherlock asked once they were alone again. "What so funny?" He tilted his head to one side, his expression expectant.

"Hmmm?" John looked up from his pursual of the list of beers on tap, his expression puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You said 'turn the second ramekin up to eleven' and she laughed," Sherlock explained impatiently. "I fail to see why she found that humorous."

"It's a 'Spinal Tap' reference?" John replied slowly, his tone wary.

Sherlock huffed. "I get that, but what does a medical diagnostic procedure have to do with the number eleven?"

John blinked twice. "Medical proce—what are you—'Spinal Tap' is a satirical movie about a British rock band trying to stage a comeback tour in the US!" 

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled, feeling oddly embarrassed by his apparent cultural ignorance. He blinked several times as he processed the information. "I didn't know that."

John pursed his lips, but his expression was sympathetic, rather than mocking. No doubt assuming that Sherlock had grown up incredibly sheltered on his supposed ranch in Montana, Sherlock deduced as he watched the myriad of micro-expressions cross John's expressive features. "I'm guessing you've never seen it?" John hazarded after a minute.

Sherlock shook his head. "I told you before, most of my childhood was devoted to the study of equines. I didn't have time for recreational television and movies." The last part was certainly true. John probably assumed that 'Billy' had been kept busy with chores. In reality, Sherlock had spent countless hours studying not only recordings of various equestrian events, but the posture and equine body language of his competitors as well.

"Well, let me know if you ever want to. Watch it, I mean. We could make an evening of it or something. There's this one famous scene involving an eighteen-inch tall Stonehenge that you'd probably enjoy."

"Okay. I'd….like that."

Their waitress returned with their drinks. John took a quick, appreciative sip of his beer. "Ah, that's good," he declared, setting it off to one side. "So," John continued, folding his arms and leaning forward to lock gazes with Sherlock. "How was your day?" He raised both eyebrows encouragingly.

Sherlock's lips twitched at the stereotypically domestic inquiry. "Not bad," he replied with a shrug. "I spent a few hours working with Devil's Blaze. It's slow going, but he's continuing to improve. He's not ready to ride, but I hope to at least be able to put him in a halter by the end of the week."

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed. "I can't believe you've gotten that far, this fast."

"That's because I'm not an amateur," Sherlock quipped, causing John to snort in rueful agreement. It made John's nose wrinkle up in the most charming manner and his lips quirk in a way that made Sherlock want to taste them. Sherlock paused to take a quick sip of his water to soothe his dry throat before refocusing on the case. "To be honest, though, I'm a bit worried about Captain Lestrade's horse considering the amount of work it's taken for Devil's Blaze to at least tolerate humans again."

John's expression shifted, became troubled. "I hope the police department can afford to rehabilitate him. Scotty's...pretty valuable—not in the same way the bloodlines of Mrs. Ross's broncos are—but because of the amount of training he's undergone. I've never met a horse with a more laid-back temperament, which makes him perfect for the amount of outreach events Greg does that involve kids. It'd be a damn shame if the police department decides he should be put down instead."

"Have you heard something?" Sherlock asked, pouncing on the tidbit of information.

John grimaced and shook his head. "Not as such. I did call Doctor Früh's clinic to see how Scotty was doing, but everything was pretty vague. Doctor Früh said they haven't definitively ruled anything out yet, but she'd try and remember to give me a call if something changed."

Sherlock nodded, recognizing a skillful non-answer. On both parties' parts. He hesitated, deciding what to do next. He could continue to press John for information on Scotty, but there was the chance that it might be misconstrued, resulting in John becoming angry and storming out of the bar in a fit of pique—hardly a satisfactory outcome.

Or he could switch his focus to John instead.

Sherlock pressed his lips together as he studied the man across the table from him through his lashes. John's expression and the line of his shoulders were relaxed as he leaned forward over the table, his body angled invitingly towards Sherlock. The posture allowed Sherlock just the faintest glimpse of the golden hairs dusting John's chest and hinted at the vee between John's well-muscled pectorals. John's eyes were very blue and very warm in the dim light. Despite the almost tangible exhaustion radiating from John's posture, his half-lidded gaze managed to be sultry and enticing. As did the little pink flashes of his tongue as he licked his lips. It was incredibly distracting and the sight made Sherlock almost want to drag John over to the nearest horizontal surface and devour him.

The spell was broken by their waitress returning with their appetizers.

"Here you go," she announced, setting the baskets and ramekins out. "The fries just came out of the fryer—be careful, they're hot. The salsa in the black ramekin is the lethal one. I'll be back in a sec with the sriracha ketchup and the buffalo sauce. Is there anything else I can get you gents? Perhaps a different beer?" she asked, tilting her head to indicate John's barely touched glass.

"I'm fine, thanks," John replied with an easy grin. "Billy?"

"Do you have any malt vinegar?" Sherlock asked, studying the gently steaming mound of fried potatoes in front of him. At least, he assumed that there were fried potatoes underneath a literal mountain of cheeses, diced scallions, chopped tomatoes, fresh jalapeño slices and sour cream that was covering the plate.

The waitress blinked in surprise. "Ah...sure thing. I'll be right back with that."

"You like vinegar on your fries?" John asked, picking up a tortilla chip and dunking it in the supposedly lethal salsa.

"I do," Sherlock replied, still staring at the mound of grease and salt in front of him with something akin to private horror. He'd thought the fried offerings at the rodeos had been ludicrous, but this...

Their waitress returned, interrupting Sherlock's train of thought. He accepted the proffered bottle with an absent nod of thanks and looked up to see John studying him with some puzzlement. “Is that unusual?"

"Not really," John admitted, shifting to rest his chin on one hand. "I just...I thought only Irish or English people put vinegar on their fries. Around here, most people go for ketchup, though there's a Greek place up in Amarillo that does a really good sriracha-mayo for their fries."

"Hardly, though it is not the most common condiment in Europe. The Dutch generally use mayonnaise, while the French prefer mustard, or sometimes _Rémoulade_. In Japan, however, they top their chips with seasoning powders."

"Really? Where did you learn that?" John asked, tilting his head to one side.

"Ah, an old veteran that worked at the local feed store," Sherlock lied, quickly realizing his error. 'Billy' might travel professionally, but his character was hardly the type to travel around the world, (his admitted fondness for Indian food aside). Sherlock hurriedly selected a chip at random and popped it into his mouth, hoping to forestall further questions. As warned, it was very hot. He hissed and blew out, trying to cool his mouth down.

"Here, try this," John said, offering Sherlock his glass of beer, which Sherlock accepted gratefully.

The chips— _French fries_ , Sherlock reminded himself, _Americans referred to them as French fries_ —were revoltingly-rich and the combination of different textures and flavors was more than a little off-putting. The beer, however, was dark and foamy—redolent with flavours of caramelized malt and hints of dried fruit. It was far superior to the disgusting swill he'd foolishly consumed previously and Sherlock drank deeply to rinse the taste and feel of greasy potato from his mouth.

"That's very good," Sherlock declared, passing the glass back. "I can see why you like it," Sherlock added, licking his lips, a gesture that John mirrored.

"Want me to buy you one?" John asked with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

Sherlock blinked, realizing with some private chagrin that he'd apparently drunk a third of it. Such actions didn't bode well for his intent to remain sober. "Maybe in a bit," Sherlock demurred. He studied the plate in front of him for a moment, noticing with no small amount of relief that the toppings were mostly clumped together on top. The fries underneath were fairly plain. Using his knife and fork, Sherlock began peeling the top layer of cheese back.

"Problem?" John asked, watching Sherlock's actions with some consternation.

"Oh, they're just a bit richer than I was expecting," Sherlock replied, giving John a wry smile. "I don't want to make myself sick." He transferred a respectable mound of the plainer fries onto a handy appetizer plate before allowing the cheese to fall back into place.

"Here," John offered, unscrewing the lid of the vinegar bottle and passing it over.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, dousing his fries liberally. He blew on the piece of fried potato to cool it off and popped it into his mouth. _Better_ , Sherlock thought as he sucked the oil and salt off of his fingertips. A soft sound from John made him glance up. John was watching him, with pupils that had gone wide and dark. "John?"

"Oh, nothing, you've just got a bit of salt on your bottom lip," John said, dragging his thumb across his own lip to indicate. Locking eyes with Sherlock, John picked up another tortilla chip and scooped up some more salsa. There was no mistaking the implied innuendo as John first licked the salsa off the chip and licked his lips before eating the chip itself in two neat bites. "You want some?" John asked, nudging the basket of tortilla chips closer.

"Please." Sherlock picked up a crisp— _chip,_ he corrected himself—and held it above the black ramekin. "How hot is it?"

John arched his eyebrows suggestively. "Pretty damn hot...but I like things a little...spicy...if you know what I mean."

"That is a terrible attempt at innuendo," Sherlock mock scolded, deciding to risk it...only to regret his choice a fraction of a second later. "Oh God," Sherlock gasped, his eyes watering in response to the perceived pain as the capsaicinoids began interacting with the proteins on his tongue's nerve cells. The various Thai and Indian curries he was used to eating back home didn't come close to approaching the level of spice the salsa contained. He coughed, which only made everything feel worse. "My tongue feels like it's on fire!" Sherlock complained as he rubbed at his streaming eyes with a clean napkin.

"I warned you," John giggled, trying—and failing—to suppress his amusement. "Here," John said, nudging the plate of chips closer. "Eat a fry," he ordered. "The starch will help counteract the burn. And then take a sip of that," John continued, passing his beer back over without asking. "It's nice and cold."

"How can you eat that?" Sherlock demanded once he was capable of speech again.

"I got used eating the local _chakalakas_ —spicy vegetable relishes—and sauces when I was stationed overseas," John explained with a cocky grin. "And occasionally we'd get into pepper-eating contests with the locals when things were slow."

"Pepper-eating contests?" Sherlock repeated, his tone ripe with disbelief.

"Or dance-offs," John added, with a one-shouldered shrug. "It was an easy way to determine who had the biggest balls...without getting written up."

Sherlock wasn't sure what his face was doing in response to the sudden bombardment of mental imagery featuring John Watson dancing, but based on John's grin, it was almost certainly humorous.

"Speaking of balls," John continued, with an unmistakable leer, "you ready to play some pool?"

"Ahhhh….yes?"

"Great. Grab your cue and I'll get the balls."

Swallowing hard, Sherlock moved over to one of the wall-mounted pool cue racks. They were not professional quality by any stretch of the imagination, but after a few minutes of searching, he managed to find one that would suffice. Satisfied, Sherlock turned to see that John had returned to their chosen pool table, a rack in one hand and a tray of balls in the other.

"So...what do you want to play?" John asked, setting the rack out, his hand hovering over the tray to begin selecting spheres. "Eight-ball? Nine-ball? Straight pool? One-pocket? Cowboy Pool?"

"Cowboy Pool?" Sherlock repeated, one eyebrow rising skeptically. He knew most of the common billiard games—no thanks to Mycroft—but 'Cowboy Pool' was a novel one. "How do you play?"

"It's a hybrid game," John explained. "Do you know how to play thirty-eight?"

Sherlock nodded.

"It's like that—only instead of two cue balls, we only use one, and we're shooting to one hundred and one points, not thirty-eight. Pocketed balls are immediately respotted back to their starting position...like so." John removed the 1 ball, the 3 ball and the 5 ball from the tray and placed them at the head spot, foot spot, and center spot, respectively. The rest of the tray was relegated to their table. "It starts ball-in-hand, with the ball in the kitchen" John continued, setting the cue ball down behind the table's head string. "Players have to contact the three ball first. You get points for caroming and pocketing balls."

"How many points?"

"One point for caroming off of two balls, two points for three balls, and the face value of any balls pocketed...for a maximum of eleven possible points per shot...like so…" John said as he took his shot. The cue ball rolled down the table and ricocheted off of the 3 ball, sending it neatly into a pocket. "There. That right there? That's three points."

"What happens if you foul or scratch?"

"Standard fouls apply, except you lose all points earned during your current inning. If you scratch, the other player starts ball-in-hand from the kitchen. The last few points have to be made from caroms. We can try it if you like or we can play straight pool instead. More balls on the table, if that's what you prefer."

"Let's start with straight pool for now," Sherlock replied, trying not to blush at John's word choice. A quick glance sideways revealed from John's smirk that the innuendo was completely intentional.

"Got it. Do you mind holding my wood?" Without waiting for Sherlock's response, John tossed his pool cue over.

Sherlock fumbled, almost dropping the cue before he managed to get a good grip. He could feel the residual warmth radiating from the wood from where John had been holding it. The heft and John's no-doubt-intentional word choice made the inevitable association rather obvious. Sherlock looked up to see John watching him, a knowing expression on his face.

"You want to break?" John asked, raising both eyebrows in what he probably thought was an innocent manner.

Sherlock shook his head once to realign his focus and nodded. "Yes. Do you want to play to a hundred points, or a hundred and twenty-five?" Sherlock asked as he circled the table, calculating his initial shot.

"Let's play to one-twenty-five. Assuming you can last that long."

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he took in John's cocky smirk. Perhaps it wouldn't be very 'Billyish,' but there was no way he could ignore the gauntlet that had just been thrown down. "Oh, believe me, I can," Sherlock drawled. He set the cue ball down and sent it careening into John's careful arrangement. The balls bounced off the bumpers and each other until they finally stopped moving. Sherlock turned and raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. A challenge that John met with an almost vulpine grin. 

John quickly proved himself a worthy opponent. He was methodical, relentless and his steady hand on the cue allowed him to pick off his chosen targets with military-like precision. Sherlock found himself scrambling to improvise a suitably devious counter strategy. It mostly consisted of trying to ricochet as many balls as possible into difficult-to-make shots and then out-thinking John when it came to doing the necessary maths.

He hadn't played such a cutthroat of 14.1 in years, certainly not since he'd first dropped out of Uni and been cut off by Mummy. Back then, the tension permeating the smoky air of the seedy bars and underground gambling dens had revolved around money: winning enough to support a drug habit, buy alcohol, fend off debt collectors or perhaps afford a hot meal and a tank of petrol. The anticipation and strain that had wound itself around the players and audience had been thick enough cut with a metaphorical knife. He'd become adept at tuning out distractions and focusing on the game. It was a skill he'd acquired out of necessity. Playing pool was faster than betting on horse races, and back then, the ability to make his shot in a pub might determine whether he made enough to score a hit, pay his rent, or both.

The tension surrounding him now was a completely different kind, replete with lip-licking, eyebrow waggling, and double entendres.

 _John had to be doing it on purpose,_ Sherlock thought as he slowly stalked around the table, trying to ignore the way John was slowly licking salt off of his fingers and concentrate on calculating angles, the amount of force to apply to the cue and all ricochet possibilities instead.

The score was currently 69 to 69 and there were only three object balls left on the table. Sherlock pursed his lips, deciding on his target. It was a tricky shot, involving banking the target ball thrice off the cushion and caroming off the other object ball, but not an impossible one. If he did manage to make this shot instead of scratching, he would be able to take advantage of the intra-game reracking rules and (hopefully) increase his lead.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pulled his cue back and focused on relaxing his muscles. Tension would only make his hands shake and cause him to miss. "Eleven ball, center foot pocket," Sherlock called out, letting his pool cue fly.

The target ball ricocheted off of various obstacles until it finally landed neatly in its designated spot. Letting out a relieved huff of air, Sherlock straightened up to see John staring at him with visible admiration.

"That. Was. Amazing," John announced, his eyes gratifyingly wide. "I figured you were good, but I didn't realize you were _that_ good. Who taught you to play?" 

"My brother," Sherlock admitted, moving around to study the two possible targets left. The corner shot seemed most likely of his choices. The other had too much chance of missing.

"This is the same brother who's a cook?" John asked, moving around the table and out of Sherlock's way.

"Mmmm...yes. My...ke needed somebody to play Snooker against and I was the only person available. I find the simple elegance of physics and geometry soothing." It wasn't a complete lie...he did find the calculations almost meditative. Sherlock crouched down so he could better study his line of sight...and found his gaze immediately drawn past the balls on the table to what lay behind them.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, his throat gone suddenly dry. The vet had positioned himself just behind the corner pocket Sherlock was aiming for, which had the effect of making the entire table point like a directional arrow straight at his crotch. There was no way it could be accidental. Nor was the extremely suggestive way John was stroking...no...fondling...no...caressing...no...petting...no, holding, _holding_ his pool cue, Sherlock thought firmly, in an effort to quell the salacious bent of his subconscious. With effort, he dragged his focus back to the game. "Nine ball, left kitchen corner pocket," Sherlock called out. He took his shot.

Only to scratch as John stepped sideways.

_Damn._

"Aww, shame," John observed in a not-at-all-sympathetic voice. "Something on your mind?"

Sherlock glared at him, only to receive a cheeky wink in return.

Still grinning, John leaned his pool cue against a handy wall and began collecting the balls for re-racking. When Sherlock moved to help, John waved him away. "Go drink something; you're looking a little flushed," John ordered. "Texas summers can be brutal for those not used to them, and the last thing I want is you fainting on me. By accident, I mean."

With a huff, Sherlock stalked back to their table and picked up his water. The first sip brought his attention to how parched he was. Sherlock quickly drained the glass and signaled the waitress for a refill. While he waited, he contented himself by stealing a sip of John's beer while he watched John move around the table.

He'd forgotten that billiards could be fun, Sherlock mused as he watched John begin to arrange the coloured spheres in the rack to his liking. Mycroft had proved to be an excellent teacher, but their games had always carried the shadow of sibling rivalry with him trying (in vain) to surpass Mycroft’s superior experience. Not only were his and John’s skill levels comparable, there were other, unexpected benefits he hadn’t foreseen.

Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth, privately appreciating the way the worn fabric of John's jeans stretched over the man's undeniably excellent arse as John pulled the rack back to its final position and lifted it away. Almost meditatively, Sherlock began tracing his fingers over the pool cue he held in his right hand. The size and heft and smooth slickness of the stick in his palm invoked the association of something else...especially when combined with the visual of John bending over the pool table. It was hard to accurately estimate the size of John's penis without a visual, but the press of John's erection through two layers of denim had certainly been promising...John was certainly the right height to...

Abruptly, Sherlock pulled back. What was _wrong_ with him? It wasn't like him at all to focus on sexual desire when he was working. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock glanced at the barely-touched glass of honey liquor he'd ordered. He hadn't consumed nearly enough alcohol for his mental state to be so compromised...Was it just him, or was John Watson truly that attractive?

Sherlock flicked his eyes sidewise, trying to gauge the feel of the room and saw that he wasn't the only person enjoying the view. A pair of women sitting at the table nearby were watching John also. The lust in their gaze was unmistakable. They kept giggling and whispering to each other and their low-voiced comments of "hung like a horse" and "I'd ride that cowboy" were so blatantly obvious, it was scarcely worth the effort of lipreading.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked back over at John, trying to analyze him impartially.

Even a complete moron could understand why the women were so enraptured. John had an easy smile and a habit of casually flirting indiscriminately, whether it was with the harried bartender passing them drinks, or an appreciative wink at the host holding open the bar's door. John had unbuttoned his chambray shirt earlier and rolled up his shirt sleeves. A concession to the heat, or a visible signal that he was off duty and inclined to relax? Regardless, the fine hairs on his forearms gleamed gold in the bar's yellow light, as did the faint patches of stubble adorning John's chin and cheeks, places that he'd missed in his rush to shave. The white cotton vest that John wore underneath his dark blue shirt did nothing to disguise the well-muscled physique that lurked underneath. Sherlock took another sip from his freshly refilled glass of water. As he did, he overheard the woman speculate on which one of them should try and fake needing 'help' remembering the rules of eight-ball.

Sherlock's lips thinned. He'd misjudged the trio of lesbians earlier, but it was obvious to any idiot that these two women were blatantly heterosexual. Both women were conventionally attractive. One was tall and thin with skin the hue of fresh cinnamon. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun on the top of her head. Her friend was shorter and quite curvaceous, with dark blonde hair cut into a pixie bob and numerous freckles dotting her fair skin. John had made it clear that his focus was on 'Billy' but if one (or both of the women) made a pass at John, it could completely derail his plans for the evening. John would probably insist on being _nice_ to them, maybe even invite them to share their table. Sherlock was distracted from his less-than-pleasant train of thought by the sound of the leather impacting polyester resin, the clack of billiard balls ricocheting off of each other as John broke, followed by John's exuberant whoop as he sunk several spheres

"Ha!" John crowed, turning around and walking—no, Sherlock corrected—swaggering back to where Sherlock was waiting with one elbow resting on the Formica top of the bar table. John hopped up on the other stool and helped himself to the whiskey that Sherlock had been nursing for the past hour. Sherlock watched, mesmerized as John brought the tumbler to his lips and took a sip of the golden liquid, his tongue flashing out to lick his lips and leaving a faint sheen of moisture in its wake.

"Seventy-five to sixty-nine. See if you can beat that," John dared, setting the glass back down with an audible thump. "Loser buys the victor a drink."

Sherlock smirked as he slid to his feet, aware that he was being watched by possible rivals for John's attention. "I'll keep that in mind...I'm intrigued by the cocktail list...the 'Lock Pick' looked interesting, as did the 'Honey Bee'."

"Dick," John said with a laugh, apparently oblivious to the interested looks the two women were giving him. He leaned forward, the unbuttoned collar of his shirt revealing a tempting slice of golden-bronze skin. "Or, since you're talking about bees, should that be 'prick'?"

"Nonsense John," Sherlock scolded, deliberately turning to give John a sultry look over his shoulder. He decided to include a bit of innuendo of his own. "Bees don't prick...to prick implies to 'pierce slightly'. I prefer the term 'impale'." Sherlock didn't miss the way that John's pupils dilated in response to his statement, or the disappointed sighs from the two women.

_Good._

Running his hand absently over the pool cue in a stroking motion, Sherlock circled the table, studying the position of the various balls. John's last shot, though effective, had been messy, knocking balls askew all over the table's surface and sending Sherlock's prior strategy out the window. Fine. He'd play this game a different way.

Especially if he wanted to keep John's attention focused on him and not on the two predatory hens the next table over.

"Seven ball, right head pocket," Sherlock called out. It was a terrible shot, but a quick glance up through his lashes revealed that John had noticed the intentional innuendo. Deliberately, Sherlock stretched out over the pool table angling his denim-clad arse back to where he knew John was watching with ill-disguised interest. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock calculated the radius and mass of the pool balls, the distance, angles and Newtonian Laws he would be using. Pulling the cue back, Sherlock made several trial shots, miming an unmistakably sexual thrust with the motion of the pool cue. Behind him, he heard John take a nervous swallow of his beer. _Perfect._

Exhaling, Sherlock pulled the cue back and let it fly. The cue ball shot forward, kissing two different balls on the way by before sending the designated ball neatly into the specified pocket. He made several more shots, sinking various balls, but deliberately missed the last one. Feigning a disgusted huff, Sherlock straightened up and looked over to where John was sitting, his mouth hanging open. "John?"

"Damn," John breathed, tilting his head sideways and popping his neck. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, looking at the final arrangement.

Sherlock smirked. He'd planned his 'foul' carefully, and the only two logical choices for John would both involve some...creative contortions. "Are you any good with your right hand, or is just your left?" Sherlock asked archly, tilting his head and deliberately accentuating the line of his throat.

John grinned, slowly, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "Oh," he breathed, and there was no mistaking the implication in his voice, "I'm very good."

"Show me," Sherlock challenged. "It looks like it might be...hard."

"Probably about as hard as yours," John replied in a low voice that was laden with intent as he walked past, clapping a familiar hand over Sherlock's left shoulder. "But nothing I can't... _handle_...if you get my drift?"

Sherlock flushed, too distracted by the mental image of John's erect cock to do more than nod.

"Ten ball, right center pocket!" John called out, deftly using his right hand as the primary hand on the pool cue instead of his left, easily scoring his point...and then racking up several more. "Your turn," John finally announced, stepping back after scratching.

They played another few rounds, trading the lead back and forth. They were tied at one hundred and twenty-three points when John scratched.

Smirking, Sherlock stepped forward. He only needed to make two points and he would win, and none of the shots would be particularly difficult. He bent over the table and lined his pool cue up with his chosen target. But before he could do anything more, his attention was arrested by a sudden gust of hot breath against his ear.

"Hey Billy," John murmured, bending over Sherlock's right shoulder and probably looking to the casual viewer like he was studying the layout of the table and not doing...anything else. "What do you say we finish up this game up and go somewhere more...private?"

Sherlock purposely sunk his eight-ball without calling his shot, essentially forfeiting the game. "Oh God yes!"

~*~

Sherlock clenched his right hand tighter around the grab-bar as John's Humvee jounced and swerved its way across the desert floor. For whatever reason, John had decided to leave the perfectly serviceable motorway they'd been traveling along to cut across an empty field at what (to Sherlock at least) was a disturbingly high rate of speed. When Sherlock had asked where they were going, John had given him a devilish grin and informed him "it's a surprise."

Sherlock was fairly certain that the rugged vehicle would survive the experience, but he wasn't so sanguine about his own chances. As if the thought had summoned the presence of some theoretical, erstwhile deity, the truck dipped suddenly and skidded, sending Sherlock sliding across the seat. Only his safety belt and his death grip kept him from crashing into John.

"Whoops! Sorry about that! Must've hit an armadillo burrow!" John announced apparently unperturbed by their near-crash. He straightened up but didn't decrease his speed. If anything, he accelerated.

Sherlock could only imagine the traumatized rabbits and other desert fauna they were no doubt leaving in their wake. The truck jolted again and swerved. Sherlock tightened his grip. If he believed in a higher power than himself, he would undoubtedly be making ardent appeals for continued bodily soundness. As it was, he could only hope that John did, in fact, know where they were going and was capable of getting them both there in one piece. A call to his brother to explain that he'd crashed in a desert wilderness somewhere after losing a game of pool was _not_ on his evening agenda.

After another ten minutes of nerve-wracking jolting, John finally pulled to a stop and killed the engine. He rolled down his window and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. The absence of the glass barricade allowed the sound of wind rushing through the desert scrub to penetrate the silence of the cab. In the distance, a coyote howled.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked curiously. 

"Timbercreek Canyon," John replied, adjusting the tilt of his seat so he could lean back. "It's an offshoot of the Palo Duro Canyon, but not as far away. Lake Tanglewood's off that way," John announced, waving his hand in a vaguely eastern direction. "The lake's a popular spot with the weekend vacationers, but I prefer the bluffs...more quiet." 

"It's…pretty...out here," Sherlock observed aloud, gazing out over the canyon. It wasn't a complete lie. It wasn't the verdant green and purple moors of the ancestral Holmes' estate by any stretch of the imagination, nor was it the stimulating bustle of London, but the terrain below him nevertheless held its own sort of stark beauty. John had parked on the crest of a hill, offering them a higher vantage point. The sun had set several hours ago, but an almost-full moon was rising, throwing dark shadows across the landscape and turning some of the limestone bluffs silver.

"I was thinking gorgeous, actually," John said softly.

The timbre of John's voice caught Sherlock's attention and he turned slightly to see John watching him, a warm smile on his face. "That's an utterly unimaginative pickup line, John," Sherlock pointed out, trying, unsuccessfully to suppress the flush of pleasure that John's compliments invoked. 

"Doesn't matter," John retorted cheerfully. "You smiled; you liked it."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked archly. "How can you be so certain?"

"You're blushing." 

Sherlock ducked his head, chuckling softly, suffused with warmth. "Tell me, John…is that why you brought me here? To admire the scenery and make me blush?"

"Well…" John drawled, leaning back and spreading his legs slightly. "I'll admit, that is a perfectly sound analysis...but I was hoping you'd go… _deeper_ …" His tone was unmistakably laden with innuendo. 

"Oh?" Sherlock replied, tilting his head and giving John a coy look through his lashes. "Whatever did you have in mind?" Sherlock asked, deliberately biting his lower lip.

"Just this," John husked, climbing out of his seat to sit on the center console. 

The change in position put John's head slightly above Sherlock's which, in itself, was something of a novelty. Sherlock looked up and blinked, curious about what John would do next. His question was answered when John reached over to pluck Sherlock's hat from his head.

"John?" Sherlock asked warily, suddenly uncertain. 

"Shhhh...it's okay," John promised, dropping the Stetson negligently in the storage area behind the seats. "You have fabulous hair," John commented aloud, his lips quirking into smile as he reached out to brush some wayward strands of fringe out of Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock froze at the first touch of John's fingers against his hair, the muscles in his neck and shoulders going tight in anticipation. It was either that or jerk away, something that would certainly kill the seductive mood John was clearly trying to set. He _hated_ having his hair played with, or even touched without warning. His scalp was extremely sensitive; it was borderline painful. He'd encountered multiple idiots over the years who operated under the mistaken impression that curly hair was meant to be pulled—that hair-pulling was somehow fun, or funny, or sexy—regardless of the preferences of the owner. 

To make matters worse, his hair was ridiculously fine and prone to horrible tangles and snarled mats if not brushed frequently. He preferred to keep it short to minimize the potential misery. Mummy, however, loved his curly hair and had insisted on her youngest child wearing his hair long, "Because, my darling, sweet little boy, you look just like a William Adolphe Bouguereau cherub with your adorable curls! Or maybe Little Lord Fauntleroy!" Mummy's obsession with sausage curls—despite Sherlock's own, well-documented propensity for exploring and getting dirty—had resulted in countless screaming fits and tears as Sherlock's scalp was subjected to the painful ministrations of impatient, heavy-handed nannies armed with stiff brushes, hard combs and greasy oils.

Even Mrs. Hudson, (as much as Sherlock knew she adored him), hadn't shown a great deal of patience or sympathy when Sherlock had sought her aid on one occasion to help him in extracting foreign bodies from his hair. It has been after a disaster involving a forgotten plastic tumbler of molasses, a box of vitamin powder and a lidded bin of dried oats that cracked open when it struck his head. Admittedly the presence of the _Rhynchophorus cruentatus_ or giant palmetto weevil grubs he was attempting to raise to serve as a source of protein for an experimental horse treat he was creating might have had something to do with Mrs. Hudson's reluctance to assist, (her aversion to earwigs was...impressive, to say the least), but that was beside the point.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, bracing himself for tugging and pain in the guise of 'romance'.

But it didn't come.

Clearly recognizing Sherlock's wariness, John simply began carding his fingers gently through the strands. He kept his movements slow to avoid accidentally tugging on snarls, paying extra careful attention to the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. After he got over the initial surprise, Sherlock found himself going involuntarily boneless with pleasure.

"Is this okay?" John asked, his voice a throaty whisper. "Do you like this?"

"Mmmmm..." Sherlock sighed, pressing into John's hands like a cat, enjoying the unexpected trails of warmth that John's fingers seemed to leave behind as they traced over his skull. 

He didn't think the experience could get any more blissful, but then John began skritching his short nails against Sherlock's scalp, relieving the itchiness left behind by the combination of sweat, hot Texas air, and the unfamiliar Stetson Sherlock continued to wear as part of his disguise. John's nails were the ideal length of 'just long enough to give a good scratch,' but not long enough to actually cause serious dermal trauma. Sherlock didn't even bother trying to suppress another groan of satisfaction as John's fingers banished a particularly troublesome itch. Instead, he slumped down in his seat and leaned over so he could rub a cheek against one of John's firm thighs. The gesture prompted a huff of soft laughter from the other man.

"You're fucking purring like a goddamn cat," John giggled from above him. John shifted so he could lean forward and began brushing kisses against Sherlock's upturned cheek, his ear, and his temple. "That is unbelievably, fucking hot."

Sherlock could hear the smugness in John's voice. He slitted one eye open to see John gazing down at him, a fond expression creasing his handsome features. Sherlock pursed his lips, deliberating. He wasn't nearly as naive as his character would have John Watson believe. John clearly had sex of some kind on his mind, but it was equally obvious that John—perhaps in deference to 'Billy's' somewhat skittish, virginal sensibilities—was content to let Billy set the pace, however fast (or slow) that might be. He could stay where he was. The petting was nice and John's solid thigh made a wonderfully firm pillow...

But the prospect of a lapful of John Watson was too tempting to resist. 

"Billy?!" John squawked as Sherlock suddenly wound long arms around John's waist and tugged him down off the divider and into his lap. 

"I want this," Sherlock assured him, relishing the delicious weight of John's body and the feel of John's strong thighs bracketing his own legs. It was a position that was calling forth all sorts of pleasurable possibilities. Even better was the fact that their faces were now at the same level. The moonlight pouring through the window turned John's blond hair silver and made Sherlock's own skin glow alabaster in comparison. To please himself, Sherlock ran his hands over John's strong shoulders and down his back, enjoying the contrasting sensations of soft, worn cotton and hard muscle underneath his palms. 

"If you're sure…" John began cautiously.

"I'm sure."

"Okay then." John took a deep breath and let it out in a quick gust, his shoulders relaxing with the exhale. "In that case...hi there," John said, his eyes crinkling up in the most endearing way.

"Hi yourself," Sherlock returned, smiling. He allowed his thumbs to brush slowly against the fabric covering John's hipbones. "Is this...is this okay? Are you comfortable?"

"Course I am...I've got the best seat in the house" John replied, raising and lowering his eyebrows suggestively. 

Sherlock snorted his disgust at the blatant pickup line, even as he laughed at John's antics. "You are incorrigible," Sherlock mock scolded.

"Yeah...but I've got an enormous cock...and I'm very good," John retorted, his complete self-assurance making Sherlock chuckle. John joined him, his naughty-little-boyish snickers making Sherlock laugh all the harder. Finally, their joined laughter faded away, leaving behind a comfortable silence. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the rare feeling of contentment. When he reopened his eyes, it was to see John staring at him again. There was an oddly soft, satisfied smile shaping John's lips as if he was staring at the most amazing, perfect, unbelievable and interesting thing in the world. 

Seeing that Sherlock was watching him, John licked his lips once and leaned forward to skim his mouth over Sherlock's, gentle as the brush of a butterfly's wing. He did it again...and again, before pulling back to bump Sherlock's nose lightly with his own. Sherlock blinked in surprise at the unexpected playfulness of the gesture, only to sigh in contentment as John tilted his head to adjust the angle and pressed another kiss to his lips, this one slightly more firm, but still chaste and encouraging.

Sherlock kept his hands tamely on John's waist: the analytical part of his brain arguing that there was unlikely that shy, gay, sober and awkwardly virginal 'Billy Scott' would reach down and grab a double handful of John Watson's delectable arse and squeeze from just a few kisses…

No matter how much he wanted to.

Apparently emboldened by Sherlock's encouraging hum, John's tongue began to flick teasingly against the seam of Sherlock's mouth, seeking entrance. With a rumble of approval, Sherlock parted his lips to invite John's tongue in...

And his normally carefully-calibrated thought process went hazy, overwhelmed by the pleasurable sensory input.

 _Hot...lush...greedy..._ came his disparate thoughts. This wasn't the teasing, erotic tongue game of advance-and-retreat he'd anticipated. John wasn't wasting time being coy; John was flat-out devouring his mouth as if he were an open flame and Sherlock was the only source of oxygen at hand.

John tasted of something faintly sweet and smoky—like the very finest of tobacco—and spicy, Sherlock noted hazily. The tingling in his lips increased and Sherlock would almost swear that he could taste the residual burn of capsaicin from the peppers John had so cheerfully devoured earlier. He could literally _feel_ his brain overloading from the sudden infusion of John-Watson-caused dopamine and oxytocin. 

"You like that?" John growled, releasing Sherlock's bottom lip with a soft pop as he met Sherlock's eyes. In the dim light, John's pupils were enormous, surrounded by the thinnest rings of blue, silent testament to his arousal. "You want me to keep going?"

Sherlock nodded once, jerkily, before surging forward to reclaim John’s mouth with a heated gasp. The soft, wet sounds their tongues and lips made sounded obscene in the still air of the truck's cab. Sherlock could feel himself growing lightheaded from the lack of oxygen, but he didn't want to stop. Breathing was _boring_. Unfortunately, his transport's need for oxygen overrode his will, forcing him to pull back.

Undeterred, John turned his attention to Sherlock's neck, interspersing nuzzles with little nips and licks at Sherlock's skin, unashamedly tasting him and almost certainly leaving faint marks on Sherlock's throat like the blush of a sunrise on snow. "You smell so good," John muttered against the soft skin just behind the hinge of Sherlock's jaw as Sherlock's lungs drew breath after a shuddering breath. "I could spend hours here, just breathing you in." 

"Mmmmmm…" Sherlock hummed in agreement. He tilted his chin up to give John better access to his left ear. He quite enjoyed the pleasurable tingles that John's skilled mouth left in its wake. Who knew ears could be such an erogenous zone? Theory was one thing, but practical application had proven to be something quite different. John obliged by taking the proffered lobe in his teeth and sucking on it gently before working his way up the outside shell. The contrast between John's warm breath, the play of his tongue and the graze of his teeth made Sherlock shiver in reaction. He could feel John's lips curl into a smile against the sensitive skin, even as John's strong warm palms began to slide across his chest, heading unerringly for his nipples. Finding their target, John's thumbs began tracing slow, heated circles around the hardened buds and then flicked suddenly across the hardened peaks. Sherlock arched as the unexpected blend of pleasure/pain sent ribbons of sensation coursing through his body.

Sherlock could feel the tingles spreading down his torso and into his still-constrained erection. Giving into temptation, Sherlock swept his hands downward, cupping John’s most excellent arse in both hands and giving it a firm squeeze. The gesture earned him an appreciative grunt and a muffled curse as a reward. It was good, but it wasn’t _enough_. Panting, Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s arse and pulled him forward, wordlessly encouraging John to use his pelvis to put pressure where Sherlock so desperately craved it. He whimpered when he felt John’s muscles tense like John was going to refuse, but instead of moving away, John—marvelous John—shifted so his denim-clad erection pressed squarely against Sherlock’s own and began rocking, his hips moving with the same easy grace as when he rode a bucking horse. Sherlock hissed, his hands scrabbling at John’s arse, urging more, harder, faster. 

"Oh Jesus," John gasped, panting against Sherlock’s cheek, even as his hips obliging picked up speed. "You feel so good...yeah...that's it..."

Sherlock whimpered.

The constriction of his silk briefs was making his cock and balls ache. His body was thrumming with arousal, effectively turning his transport into a hot mess of prickling sensation that made it impossible to concentrate on anything except the sudden and pressing need to get off. The friction, the sensual rasp of cotton, the weight of John’s body on his lap was good, but he wanted _more_. He wanted bare skin. He wanted to know how John’s palm felt wrapped around him. What would the vet’s calluses feel like? Would they catch on the thin skin? Would John’s hands be fast or slow? Rough or gentle? The thoughts were enthralling. 

"John, John, stop," Sherlock gasped, tightening his grip to still the motion of John’s hips. 

"Billy? What’s wrong?" John asked instantly, his forehead creasing in lines of worry. 

"Nothing…" Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I just...I need more." 

"Do you now?" John asked, one eyebrow rising, his relief palpable..

"Yes!" He fully expected John to lean forward and kiss him again, maybe spend a few minutes fumbling awkwardly with his belt before giving up and shoving his left hand down Sherlock's jeans and wanking him to completion while humping one of Sherlock's thighs the way the two of them probably would have the other night, had they not been interrupted by Lestrade's inconveniently-timed phone call.

But John didn't. 

Instead, John pulled back, sliding backwards until he was sitting almost on Sherlock's knees, making the Sherlock writhe with frustration at the loss of pressure on his groin.

John licked his lips and looked down to where Sherlock's unmistakable erection was creating a sizable bulge in the crotch of his jeans. It matched the one in John’s. "You mentioned that you were pretty sheltered growing up, Billy..." John remarked, his tone one of speculative scientific interest. "...and that you didn't do much dating because you've always been devoted to your work...Tell me, Billy…have you ever gotten sucked off in a pickup truck?"

Sherlock blinked, trying to think through the fugue of lust then shook his head. "I can't say that I have." 

"That's a shame…," John commented, leaning forward so he could trace his tongue enticingly along the shell of Sherlock's left ear. He nipped it, only to soothe the sting with a flick of his tongue, and then pulled back so he could stare Sherlock in the eyes. "It's kind of a rite of passage around here," John added in a husky voice that was full of promise.

Sherlock's pulse began thudding at the prospect of heat and suction and the visual of John’s absolutely perfect lips greedily wrapping around his throbbing length and swallowing him down. 

"Really," Sherlock drawled, striving for a neutral tone and failing miserably. "And...uhhhh...nobody will believe I'm a local unless I have?" Sherlock asked, trying to ignore how unsteady his voice sounded.

"Mmmmm hmmmm," John nodded, giving Sherlock's ear a final nip. He shifted and began pressing kisses down Sherlock's jawline while his left hand crept higher up Sherlock's thigh until his index finger was just grazing the denim covering Sherlock's throbbing cock. "I could…mmm…help you with that, if you'd like?"

"Please," Sherlock gasped, trying—unsuccessfully—not to thrust up against the palm that John was now ghosting over his fly. "I would…oh God…hate to be considered lacking."

"Scoot the seat back; give me some room," John ordered, pushing Sherlock back until he was leaning against the corner of the seat and the cab. Sherlock ended up angled almost diagonally on the seat with his back pressed against the window. John, meanwhile, scooted backwards and shifted until he was kneeling partially in the driver’s side footwell, his body framed between Sherlock's lean thighs. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a quip on the tip of his tongue. 

"Shut it," John said, evidently anticipating a dig about his height. "It's one of the few advantages to being short." He reached for Sherlock's belt and fly, egged on by Sherlock's increasingly heated breaths. The sound of the zipper seemed abnormally loud in the quiet air, as did the rustle of fabric as John folded Sherlock's jeans back, allowing Sherlock's penis to bulge outward, its heated length just barely constrained by the fabric of Sherlock's silk briefs. 

"Jesus, will you look at that," John said softly, licking his lips. He reached out and ran two fingers down Sherlock's fabric-covered shaft, stopping just before he touched the wet patch that marked where the slit of Sherlock's cock was leaking copiously. "Silk huh?" John asked, licking his lips again, his gaze flicking up to meet Sherlock's. "I like it."

"John," Sherlock growled, just barely managing to stay in character in the face of the rising flood of testosterone, dopamine, and adrenaline. "No pun intended, but would you quit dicking around?"

John simply smirked and reached up, grabbing the waistband of Sherlock's jeans and the elastic of his pants. His hands felt scorchingly hot against Sherlock's sensitized skin. "Right then. Shut up and lift," John ordered, waiting for Sherlock to brace himself before beginning to tug at the fabric. 

Sherlock groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as his jeans and pants were pulled down his legs, almost to his knees. In a way, it was mortifying to be so exposed. If possible, his legs were even paler than his chest, and his cock, while not statistically deviant from the norm, was still nowhere as generously sized as he’d heard John's was. 

He'd overheard Edith Baker and Alice Turner discussing John’s genitalia one afternoon while they’d been cleaning tack. He’d been preoccupied with collecting feed samples when an impressed whistle had caught his attention. Curiosity had made Sherlock peek over the edge of a stall door to see John wrestling with an unhappy gelding who didn't want to have his teeth checked. The struggle had thrown the muscles of John's arms and legs into sharp relief and Sherlock had found his own mouth going dry in response. But the slight embarrassment of being mostly nude in front of John was quickly overwhelmed by the relief of having his cock and balls released from their fabric prison. 

"Well hello there," John announced, his tone one of novel surprise.

"What?"

"You're not circumcised."

"Is that...bad?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"Not at all," John reassured him, licking his lips. "It's unexpected and wonderful...like you."

"I can’t get over how fantastic you smell," John whispered, resting his head on Sherlock's thigh and taking a blatant sniff of Sherlock's humid skin while his strong hands rubbed Sherlock's bare legs. "Sweat…musk…I can't wait to have you in my mouth," John added, deliberately licking his lips. "Your cock looks fucking fantastic…so long and lean, just like you are…Speaking of my mouth…here." John reached into his pocket and pulled out three, individually wrapped condoms which he dropped into Sherlock's right palm. "Whiskey, coffee, or spicy cinnamon? Take your pick. I like them all." 

The foil packets were warm from the heat of John's body; a promise of things to come. Squinting, Sherlock picked up one in his left hand and held it up to the moonlight streaming through the windshield, his lust temporarily redirected by curiosity. The packets were shiny black and adorned with unrealistic renditions of exploding stars and spermatozoa that were…enthusiastically swimming around the obscenely inflated red text spelling out the condom's brand. 

"Cocks Rock! Feel the Explosion?" Sherlock asked skeptically, reading the logo aloud. One eyebrow arched up as he looked from the condom, to John, and back again. "Really, John? Flavoured condoms?" 

"What?" John demanded. "You've never used flavoured condoms before?"

"Oh I have," Sherlock lied, not wanting John to be aware of his personal lack of sexual experience. Victor had been his first and only partner. Like John, Victor had also insisted on using protection during oral sex, though in Victor's case, it was less of a matter of sexual health and more based on a religious interpretation of semen being 'unclean'. "I just…wasn't aware of anything beyond that horrid so-called 'banana' flavour, or that equally appalling one they have the gall to label 'strawberry,'" Sherlock explained, tilting his pelvis up in a less-than-subtle-hint.

"Aww, shame," John said sympathetically, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock’s urgency as he smoothed his palms up and down the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. "They've got all sorts of flavours: BBQ sauce, mint, Kahlua, chocolate, French vanilla, lemon, Dutch apple pie, mesquite, bacon, smoked sausage…you name it. They've also got an amazing line of dental dams called 'Tootsie's Twat! The tag line is 'How many licks does it take?' These are the best damn products for oral sex on the market. I should know…I've tried a lot out, over the years," John added with a wink. 

"What makes them so amazing?" Sherlock asked, ruthlessly suppressing the surge of jealousy that arose at John's casual mention of his myriad of past partners. He—no, ' _Billy_ ' shouldn't have any reason to be jealous: this was temporary, for the work. He was lulling John into a false sense of complacency and trust so he could hack his personal files. A tactic that would hopefully eliminate John from the enormous pool of potential suspects and result in him getting one step closer to solving the case.

And also hopefully get himself off in the meantime. 

"They were invented by a group of scientists that were looking for some way to create chewing gum that never loses its taste," John explained, oblivious to Sherlock's thoughts. "Somebody, I don't know if it was a boyfriend, or a wife, or what, but somebody in the team had the brilliant idea to repurpose the research. The polyisoprene sheath is embedded with some sort of nanocapsules that dissolve slowly at different rates, so the taste stays for a long time. Now, you gonna pick one, or we gonna stay here talking all night?" The cheeky, raised eyebrow he shot Sherlock made it clear that John knew _exactly_ how his rambling explanation about prophylactics was affecting the other man.

Sherlock hurriedly selected a packet at random, since none of the flavors John had listed were personally objectionable, (unlike, say, the flavour of liquorice, which he despised with a passion). He pressed it into John’s hand, almost dropping the other two in his eagerness to get _on_ with it.

"Coffee, huh?" John said, holding the chosen condom up to the moonlight and reading the flavour printed on the back. "That's great. Coffee's my personal favourite...it's got caffeine so I can keep going...and going...and going." Using his teeth, John tore the corner of the packet open and pulled the condom out, placing it in his mouth.

"Erm…John?" Sherlock began. "It's been a while since the mandatory sex-ed classes in school, but I'm fairly certain that that isn't where that should go…"

John simply held up a finger, ordering Sherlock to be quiet, and leaned forward, using his mouth to roll the condom down Sherlock's straining length.

"Oh…God," Sherlock gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, his head involuntarily falling backwards and hitting the Hummer's side window with an audible 'thunk' as John's mouth engulfed him in wet, slick heat. 

John slid back up and ran his tongue in a broad, wet stripe over the plastic barrier now sheathing Sherlock's cock. "God, I wish I could taste you for real. Coffee-flavoured condoms aren't bad, but I imagine you taste even better."

"Joooohhnnn," Sherlock growled, forcing his eyes open with difficulty and tilting his chin to glare at the smirking vet kneeling between his legs. "Stop. _Talking_."

"Heh. As you wish," John husked, reaching out with his left hand. He wrapped his palm and fingers around Sherlock's cock to hold the base of the condom in place and gave it a little squeeze before dropping down again to take the head of Sherlock's shaft in his mouth. 

Sherlock's eyes fell shut again, all coherent thought obliterated by the overwhelming pleasure of John's mouth. This was…indescribably better than what he remembered experiencing with Victor and he felt another piece of his carefully constructed facade crack free. There was none of Victor's hesitance or barely-hidden repulsion for performing fellatio. Instead, John—to use a local colloquialism because nothing else seemed appropriate—completely went to town on Sherlock's cock. He licked and sucked and hummed with audible appreciation, seemingly content to stay where he was for the foreseeable future.

John used his left hand to move up and down on Sherlock's shaft, establishing a steady, toe-curling rhythm. His right hand reached between Sherlock's spread thighs to cup the heavy weight of Sherlock's testicles in his warm palm. He alternated between petting the sparse hair with the calloused pad of his thumb, rolling them between his fingers and tugging on them gently, making Sherlock writhe in pleasure. It was wonderful, all slickness and tongue, the scorching warmth of John's mouth, the pull of John's lips and the feeling of John's soft palate pressing against the head of his cock.

From time to time, John would pull back so just the head of Sherlock's cock was held between his lips. He alternated between swirling his tongue around the tip like he was sucking on an ice lolly or something else equally delicious and cupping his tongue around the underside to massage the seam and Sherlock's frenulum. Every time he did, John made sure to catch Sherlock's eyes before diving back in to suck with gratifying eagerness. The motions of his tongue and lips only grew more enthusiastic the louder Sherlock bucked and swore.

John began to growl deep in his throat, wordlessly encouraging Sherlock to fuck his mouth. When Sherlock made the first tentative thrust forward, John moaned loudly in encouragement, urging him on. Sherlock found himself complying, his hips snapping forward again and again, helpless to do anything but obey in the face of John's talented lips and tongue. The air in the cab filled with the musk of male arousal and sweat, adding to the already prevalent scents of leather and woodsmoke, sagebrush and sand.

"Put your hands in my hair and watch," John eventually ordered, pulling off of Sherlock with an audible pop, his voice rough with passion and need.

John's thin lips were flushed and swollen, Sherlock observed, distantly, forcing himself to acquiesce to John's demand, his hands shaking slightly with the effort. John's short, fine hair was wet with sweat, and individual hairs squeaked slightly as Sherlock ran his fingers through the damp strands. Apparently satisfied that Sherlock was paying attention, John leaned forward again and wrapped his lips around the head of Sherlock's cock, forming a perfect seal. John paused, looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze. He took a deep breath, his ribs expanding visibly, and then he abruptly dropped down, swallowing Sherlock's cock to the root.

"Oh God, JOHN!" Sherlock shouted, thrashing his head against the back of the seat at the indescribably good sensation of having the warm, smooth heat of John's mouth and throat enveloping his entire penis. His hands spasmed against John's skull, almost certainly pulling John's hair. The vet didn't seem to mind, though, Sherlock could feel the little puffing snickers from John's nose fluttering Sherlock's pubic hair. Still snickering, John began to swallow around Sherlock's cock. The sensation of the muscles of John's throat and tongue contracting around him made Sherlock's vision white out, especially when John moved his left hand further back. He pressed his fingers up against the skin behind Sherlock's scrotum and began externally massaging his prostate, adding yet another layer of sensation to the already unbelievable pleasure Sherlock was currently experiencing. "John, I'm about to…I'm about to," Sherlock began to stammer, his voice a husky moan at the sensations invoked by John's wonderfully talented fingers.

John slid up long enough to take another quick breath. "Good. I want you to," John growled, his voice hoarse, before sinking back down and beginning to suck hard. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's as he began to bob his head up and down. As Sherlock's breathing increased in tempo, John tightened his lips around Sherlock's girth and sucked even harder, his cheeks hollowing inward.

Sherlock's breath hitched. He felt his balls tighten even further, heralding his impending release. John growled once again, a sound of pure lust, and that was enough to tip Sherlock over the edge. White-hot pleasure coursed through his frame, making him keen. Dimly he was aware of John grunting suddenly, but he didn't pull off in disgust the way Victor would have. Instead, John's mouth gentled him through the aftershocks, the plastic barrier between the two of them keeping the sensations from becoming too much. Eventually, John let Sherlock's penis slip free from between his lips, to lay flaccid and soft against his cheek.

"That was fantastic," John whispered, his eyes bright with affection. "Thank you."

"What...what about you?" Sherlock managed after two tries, his tongue feeling abnormally thick and slow from the residual endorphins coursing through his system. Reciprocation was important; Victor had drilled that fact into him repeatedly. Sherlock mustn't be selfish in bed. He should reciprocate every one of Victor's advances with an extended session of fellatio, regardless of how perfunctory Victor's own offering had been, whether Sherlock got off, or even if Sherlock had actually been in the mood in the first place.

John laughed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's bare thigh. "That's actually not necessary...I'm good."

"Huh?" Sherlock mumbled, not understanding.

John giggled, rubbing his nose against Sherlock's knee. "Listening to you enjoy yourself was so fucking hot, I came in my pants like a damn teenager. Stay there okay? I’d hate to make you move when you are so clearly blissed out." John pressed another affectionate kiss to Sherlock’s thigh and then levered himself off his knees. "Budge over," John ordered, giving Sherlock’s hip a helpful nudge so John could perch on the very edge of the seat. Reaching into the glove compartment, John pulled out two spare, clean bandanas, an empty plastic bag, a small pair of scissors and a small plastic bottle of water. John disposed of the used condom in the plastic bag and cracked the cap on the bottle, using the tepid liquid inside to wet both bandanas down. He wiped Sherlock’s limp penis clean and dry with careful attention and tucked everything away first, before attacking his own button and zip. 

Sherlock rolled his head so he could watch. John was magnificent in his utter lack of self-consciousness. There was a quick ‘snick’ of cutting fabric and John’s plain black bikini briefs joined the used condom in the trash bag. Even satiated as he was with endorphins and post-orgasmic hormones, Sherlock couldn’t deny the stab of desire as he caught sight of the dark blond curls in the shadowy vee of John’s fly. 

"There. That’s better," John announced, redoing his buckle zip and wiping his hands clean. "Now...how ‘bout a cuddle, gorgeous?"

"Mrrmph," Sherlock agreed, rolling to his side and extending an arm. They ended up with Sherlock half-laying on John’s chest, their knees draped over the seat divider and their boots resting on the driver’s seat. It was a bit awkward and cramped, but being able to use John as a pillow was worth it, Sherlock decided. Especially when he began running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again. 

"So…" John began with studied nonchalance as Sherlock snuggled into his chest, "how would you rate losing your truck blowjob virginity?"

"Virginity is an abstract concept, John," Sherlock scolded, but there wasn’t any real heat in it. He was too blissful to care. "It's an outmoded idea commonly peddled heavily by various conservative religions and political groups alike in an attempt to shame individuals—particularly women—in an effort to deter them from engaging in premarital intercourse. Furthermore, one can not simply 'lose' one's virginity the way one would 'lose' a set of keys or a pint of blood or a wallet or a mobile phone. It is something that the inexperienced individual in question has hopefully chosen to engage in with at least a microm of forethought for pregnancy prevention or the risks of disease transmission."

"Yeah, yeah, I get that," John groused, rolling his eyes. "But how was it? Did you like it?" His casual tone belied the tension Sherlock could feel in his muscles. 

Sherlock licked his lips, his mind once again flooding with the images of how John had looked with his lips wrapped around his penis, the sensations John had invoked, the way he'd clearly enjoyed himself the entire time…"Mmmmm yes," Sherlock purred. "It was good. It was very good. _You _are very good...I would very much like to do that again. Preferably quite frequently."__

____

____

"That's good, Billy," John whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. "I'm glad you liked it. I…kind of want to give you everything."

"Why?"

John hesitated. Sherlock tilted his chin up. John was looking out the windshield, a pensive expression on his face. 

After a moment, he cleared his throat and tilted his chin down to meet Sherlock's curious gaze. John's expressive eyes were soft with post-coital hormones and something much, much warmer. "I guess it’s because...You told that client of mine that you weren't a hero and maybe you aren't one in the classic sense, but let me tell you this: you are truly one of the most _remarkable_ men I have ever known and nothing you do is going to convince me otherwise." John quirked his lips and laughed softly. "I know you may think it's sudden, especially since we've only known each other for a couple of months, but I actually started looking at vet jobs in Montana so I can follow you when you leave…assuming you want me to, that is."

Sherlock froze, feeling something in his chest crack at John's simple, heartfelt words. This was far, _far_ beyond what he had intended. When had John started to develop feelings for him beyond straightforward lust? Why the sudden sick sense of guilt? As much as he was loath to admit it, Donovan was right. His duty was to investigate the case impartially and let the chips fall where they may. He didn't think that John was responsible, but at the same time, he couldn't dismiss Donovan's valid arguments over why John should still be considered a suspect. One way or another, the truth would out.

Sherlock's queasiness intensified as John reached over and gently brushed a curl away from his eyes: for some reason, the casual gesture felt far more intimate than John sucking his cock. John had said he liked 'Billy' but would what might happen if John learned who 'Billy' really was? Would he like _Sherlock_ just as much?

"Billy?" John asked, his tone concerned. "You alright? You've gone awful quiet.."

Sherlock blinked and took a deep shuddery breath, rich with the scent of John and began shaking with the realization that he was metaphorically, if not literally, fucked.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> _Yes, I will freely admit that I spent an absurdly long amount of time designing this logo and creating this image!_


	19. Laying the Groundwork

~*~

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he studied his client, reading the nervous motions of the stallion's ears and eyes with the ease of long experience. Devil's Blaze was visibly apprehensive, but he wasn't panicking.

_Good._

He tightened his grip on the lead line attached to Blaze's halter and began swinging the remainder of the rope he held in his right hand in a large circle off to one side, keeping the end of the rope well clear of the horse. Blaze's ears moved frantically in response to the singing sound the rope made as it whipped through the air, but once again, he didn't try and bolt.

Sherlock nodded in silent approval at the stallion's obedience. It had taken weeks of work to get the stallion to accept Sherlock's touch, much less tolerate having a halter being applied and removed. The next step was desensitization, not in the sense of making the stallion anything other than what he was—an impossible-to-ride mount—but rehabituating Blaze to the common noises, scents and random objects he might encounter at rodeos so he wouldn't panic and bolt if a plastic bag blew past or a truck backfired. To the average idiot, it seemed counterintuitive to deliberately frighten a horse, but Sherlock knew that the more the trainer tried to frighten a horse using proper training techniques, the more bomb-proof a horse eventually became because they learned that tarps or bridges or screaming children were harmless and consequently something that could be safely ignored. It was the same type of training that police horses, cavalry mounts, and carnival pony strings were subjected to.

Taking a firmer grip on the line in his left hand, Sherlock tossed the end of the rope gently over Blaze's back. The stallion predictably shied and tried to back away. Sherlock set his feet and yanked on the lead line in the opposite direction as a reprimand. He held his place for a moment, keeping tension on the line, hoping that the stallion’s neck would soften, but the stallion reared and tried to run instead. The sudden application of force was enough to jerk Sherlock half off his feet. With an exasperated grunt, Sherlock shifted his grip and quickly began to run with the stallion so he couldn't escape. 

As they moved around the corral, Sherlock alternated between running directly at the stallion and making loud noises while popping the slack in the rope to frighten him even more, and setting his feet and using his mass and both hands on the lead rope to jerk the stallion's head back around so he was forced to stop. It was a struggle that he knew would leave him sore later, but it couldn't be helped. After an intense sixty seconds, Devil's Blaze finally stopped trying to flee. More importantly, he didn't try to attack. Sherlock immediately rewarded him by releasing the pressure and giving him a quick rub on the shoulder before leading him back to where they'd started so he could regain sufficient running room and start the entire process over again.

And again.

And _again._

When Sherlock finally stopped to take a rest after a good ninety minutes worth of work, both he and Devil’s Blaze were both doubly exhausted from their struggle for dominance and from the unrelenting glare from the harsh sun high overhead. Sherlock walked the stallion out to cool him down and watered him, before picking up his own two bottles of lukewarm water and retreating to the shade of his (and Bonnie's) preferred tree so he could relax without unnecessarily exposing himself to even more UVA and UVB radiation. The air under the shade was only marginally cooler, perhaps thirty-six degrees Celsius instead of thirty-seven, but there was a faint breeze, which helped. 

_Wretched desert climate,_ Sherlock thought with a scowl as he peeled off his sweaty leather work gloves and Stetson, allowing the items to fall to the sun-baked grass with a soft ‘thwap.’ The sound of wet leather striking the ground was loud enough to rouse Bonnie, who gave the items a cursory sniff before laying her head back down with a soft whuff. 

He would prefer to do without the felted-fur hat entirely, Sherlock mused bad-temperedly as he scrubbed his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair in a vain attempt to aerate his sopping curls enough that they'd actually dry into something nominally soft and fluffy. Regrettably, the region's blazing, late-afternoon sun made the wide-brimmed hat a necessity, rather than a fashionable accessory. Those who wrote about the glory days of the American Wild West had obviously never experienced the sheer misery of the region's summers. If it weren't for the fact that it was anatomically impossible, he would blame the excessive heat and lack of humidity for the detrimental effects on his mind It almost felt as if his brain was cooking inside his skull.

Still scowling, Sherlock began attacking the buttons of the red plaid shirt he wore, desperate to remove as many layers as possible. He couldn't wait to return home to London's cooler temperatures and overcast skies where he didn't bloody well _itch_ all the time from drying sweat, mosquito bites, and the bites of the horrible, native Trombiculidae mites known colloquially as 'chiggers'. The sopping button-down was tossed over a low-hanging branch to dry, leaving him in his white vest which had likewise gone transparent. At least the evaporation of moisture from the surface of his skin was having a marginally-cooling effect, Sherlock noted as he wiped away the drops of sweat beading his forehead with the back of one of his wrists before they could trickle down into his eyes and make them sting. 

He took a seat and leaned back against the tree trunk with a huff. Bonnie welcomed his presence with a lazy wag of her tail and the canine equivalent of a grin. Sherlock felt his lips quirk in an involuntary smile as he automatically reached over to rub the collie's ears. It wasn't quite as soothing as playing his violin, but his violin wasn't here and Bonnie was. The dog responded with a happy growl. Bonnie’s non-judgemental company and unabashed joy in his touch was something of a mental and physical balm Sherlock mused as he gently worked a sand burr free of the silky hair. Especially after the hours he’d spent struggling with Devil’s Blaze. As if sensing Sherlock’s scrutiny, Devil’s Blaze raised his head and flehemed, no doubt honing in on the traces of Sherlock’s scent and his corresponding location based on the direction of the wind.

Sherlock frowned. He’d been hoping for some sort of impressive breakthrough that he could show Candii Ross when she returned from her extended business trip in Spain since the woman had not-so-subtly reminded him that several major rodeo events were coming up, but his progress had been negligible. 

Sherlock snorted with more than a trace of irritation as he watched the stallion break into a nervous canter around the round pen. It made no sense. He'd worked with countless frightened and jumpy horses over the years, but he'd never seen a horse that was so slow to respond to his training techniques. Nor one that was so...volatile after the effort he’d put into desensitization. Usually, once a horse got used to the sight and sensation of a lead rope being tossed over their back or wrapped around their legs, it was a fairly straightforward matter to desensitize them to the crack of a rope striking the ground or the flutter of a tarp, but Blaze didn’t. He responded at the beginning of each session as if he were fighting for his life...and that was still after several weeks of work. 

Sherlock bent his right knee so he could rest his right elbow on it and began worrying at a thumbnail as he pondered the situation from a different angle. Broncos weren’t his forte—race horses, competitive jumpers and the occasional interesting client were. He’d worked with countless nervous animals with dangerous bucking issues, but never a horse that had been specifically bred for what was otherwise an undesirable (and extremely dangerous) behavior.

A pang of self-doubt ran through his mind. Was it possible Sterndale was correct? Was he simply underestimating Devil's Blaze's naturally hot-blooded nature? Frightened horses could, (and would) attack, even without being trapped in a stall and being struck repeatedly with a sharp curry comb. Had he misinterpreted the photographs? Or were Molly’s assertions that Devils Blaze was a sweetheart correct and the stallion’s ongoing behavioral issues were a symptom of whatever drug or drugs he’d been given? 

Sherlock pressed his lips together as he watched the stallion slow to a walk. Unfortunately, he was no closer to answering his questions. He’d lost track of the number of hours he’d spent analyzing different samples in his efforts to both identify the mysterious substance in the cigarette and to discover the identifying markers in New Scotland Yard’s and Devil’s Blaze’s blood that would let whatever the drug was be detected in other horses. He’d even resorted to setting up a rudimentary lab in the Triple C’s breeding and foaling barn in order to continue his research when Anderson’s facilities were not available. Molly had proven herself surprisingly helpful in that regard; it was quite efficacious to have an assistant that both understood what normal horse blood profiles looked like who wasn’t the least bit squeamish about preparing slides of blood, fecal matter, mucus and other organics. 

The problem was his sample pool was too small for sufficient data, Sherlock thought with a sour grimace as he shifted slightly to escape from the lump of bark that had begun digging into his spine. And, thanks to the incompetence of the police officers in Flagstaff and the incomplete nature of Doctor Mortimer’s records, the chances of him increasing that sample pool were vanishingly small. Why did so many veterinarians focus on the obvious causes of aggressiveness? Why couldn’t more of them _see,_ as well as observe, the way John had? Even Sterndale, with all of his supposed experience, had fallen back to a simple rabies misdiagnosis instead of making an effort to identify the problem. It was just as well that John had been there, Sherlock reflected, otherwise, Devil’s Blaze would be dead and Sterndale would be bilking Candii Ross out of thousands of pounds for his worthless care. 

Fortunately, the refreshingly competent Doctor Früh had indeed kept her promise about keeping him apprised of New Scotland Yard's prognosis. The good news was that the gelding was slowly being weaned off the tranquilizers. The bad news was that the standardized tests the gelding had been subjected to still hadn't resulted in anything conclusive, and—thanks to the slow growth rate of Appaloosa hair—it would also be several more weeks before the follicles of either Scotty's mane or tail produced strands of hair that were long enough for drug testing. 

With a sigh, Sherlock let his head fall back to rest against the tree's trunk, grimacing with discomfort as the adrenaline began to wear off and his transport’s complaints began to register. He considered himself fit, but the rising clamor of abused muscles made it clear that getting dressed in the morning would almost certainly be unpleasant. Now that he was paying attention, he could also detect the telltale heat radiating from the back of his neck that heralded a presence of a sunburn, in spite of the protective lotion he'd used. He picked up his remaining bottle of water and took a quick swig before dumping the rest of the contents over the back of his neck in an effort to cool the worst of the burn. At this rate, he was going to have to run to the shops again for more aloe vera gel and the American equivalent of Paracetamol.

He still planned on approaching Lestrade about transporting New Scotland Yard to the Triple C. He was confident that Lestrade would jump at the chance to have an expert work with his partner. The tricky part would be convincing Candii Ross to agree, once she got back in the country. The businesswoman obviously hadn’t gotten to where she was by not demanding full value for her money and time. Ergo, it was highly probable that she would object to Sherlock spending his normal working hours on another horse. Sherlock pursed his lips in thought. He would have to make sure to frame his demand in a way that made the potential benefits to Devil's Blaze obvious. His early attempt to introduce a companion animal in the form of a nanny goat had failed miserably...maybe another horse would be a better choice? He vaguely remembered that there was an American author that had made the practice famous with the fictional account of an old cart horse named Napoleon and a black stallion racehorse that did his best to kill anything and everything that came near it...not unlike the red stallion in the round pen in front of him.

On the upside—for today's session, at least—he could report that Candii Ross that her prize stallion had consistently responded to Sherlock's desensitization methods by attempting to flee, rather than attacking.

Sherlock let his eyes drift shut, feeling the lack of sleep from the past nine days beginning to catch up. He seldom bothered to sleep during an ordinary case—it generally didn't take him more than a few hours, perhaps a couple of days to solve most issues. But the heat and general physical exertion that working with Devil's Blaze demanded made everything different. To compound the matter, the hours he wasn't working with Blaze or working on his samples in the lab had been devoted to reading photocopies of John’s original, hand-written notes for Devil’s Blaze's medical records and scouring the internet for information about plants that were known to create uncharacteristic aggression in members of the Equus family. He'd found a few (unverified) reports from South Africa about free-range cattle trying to attack cowboys and trucks while being rounded up, but nothing that seemed worth further investigation. 

John would probably have something pithy to say about 'Billy's' tendency to subsist on cat naps while working, Sherlock thought with a contemptuous sniff as he settled into a more comfortable slouch. No doubt it would consist of a tedious lecture about the dangers of burning candles at two ends and in the middle or some other equally hyperbolic claim...not that it mattered since John was still off working as a rodeo veterinarian in Dakota...Des Moines...Delaware...Denver? Whatever place it was that started with the letter 'D' that John had been gone to for the last week or so. 

Sherlock allowed his lower lip to protrude slightly in the beginning of a pout. John had promised to keep in touch, but all his phone had received were a miserly fifty-six text messages. Some were interesting, (such as the photo John had texted him showing a close-up of an early-stage penile squamous cell carcinoma that John had diagnosed out of hand). Others were inane complaints about the weather and the stupidity of some humans, but the worst ones were the flirty ones. Most of them were disgustingly puerile attempts to let ‘Billy’ know that John was thinking about him, ("I can’t sleep because I can’t stop daydreaming about you" and "you’ve already been on my mind today and I just woke up"), but Sherlock couldn’t deny the thrill of excitement he experienced every time his phone chimed with John’s text alert, nor the twist of guilt that followed every time he sent a flirtatious text in return. John’s last message had been a promise to call once he got back in town so they could have dinner together, which Sherlock recognized as a probable euphemism for sex.

Not that he would be opposed. John was very attractive, Sherlock thought drowsily, enjoying the way Bonnie’s comforting weight pressed against his leg. John was fortunate enough to possess at least one copy of the MCR-1 gene, which meant that he naturally tanned instead of burning. Prolonged exposure to the sun’s rays only deepened the attractive shade of bronze, as opposed to the painful (and unsightly) shade of lobster red that Sherlock and Mycroft were prone to, (though Mycroft would no doubt deny it, Sherlock was convinced that his brother’s habit of carrying an umbrella for sun protection instead of a more practical parasol or wearing a hat was because it would seem foppish otherwise). Sherlock sighed. It was a pity he hadn’t managed to get John’s shirt off the other night in pickup truck. He could easily extrapolate John’s physique from musculature of his chest, but since he hadn’t actually seen the man unclothed, there was no way of knowing if John was a lovely shade of bronze all over, or if John’s bum was a different colour, like those belonging to some of the athletes featured in the annual Warwick Rowers calendars.

 _All over,_ Sherlock decided, letting his mind drift. A little rest to catch his breath and let Devil’s Blaze calm down a bit would help him return his brain to peak operating efficiency.

_"You're stunning, you know that, right?" John whispered, licking his lips, his eyes wide with want._

_"Whatever do you mean?" Sherlock asked the nude man kneeling beside him. In the dappled sunlight of the tree’s shadow, John resembled nothing so much as a Rodin sculpture brought to life. The faint gleam of sweat on his bronze skin gleamed, highlighting the well-defined muscles of John’s chest. One small drop trickled from the hollow at the base of John’s throat and ran down his sternum, practically begging Sherlock to chase it with his lips and tongue. Instead, Sherlock purposely stretched his arms above his head catlike and pointed his toes in a motion that he knew would elongate his torso and accentuate the ligaments of his inguinal crease in a bid to lure John closer._

_"You know exactly what I mean, you gorgeous man" John teased him, obligingly shifting on the blanket so he could straddle Sherlock's calves. "You’re like a cat, begging for tummy rubs," John continued as he ghosted his palms over Sherlock’s hips, the gentle friction of the gesture sending waves of tingling warmth over Sherlock’s already overheated skin._

_"Are you going to pet me then?" Sherlock asked breathlessly._

_"If you’d like me to," John offered, threading the fingers of one hand through the auburn curls ringing Sherlock’s cock and giving them a gentle tug. The flicker flash of pleasure/pain emanating from his groin made Sherlock arch in delight. "But I’ll admit, I did have something different in mind, since you remind me so much of a cat...Cats like to groom each other with their tongues, don’t they?"_

_It was a completely rhetorical question, but Sherlock didn’t mind, since John promptly bent over to press a teasing kiss to the head of Sherlock's damp cock, before settling down to lick him in earnest._

_Sherlock sighed as John’s tongue began making wide passes from the root of his cock to the tip, sometimes curling to cup the vein running along the underside, sometimes lapping at the small beads of moisture that were seeping from the tip of Sherlock’s cock the way a cat would delicately sample a treat’s taste for patibility before devouring it._

_It was all very light and teasing, more of a suggestion of pressure and heat than any real sensation, which made sense, Sherlock acknowledged, since a small part of his brain was still aware of the fact that he was presently outside, under a tree, rather than secreted in the privacy of his cabin._

_"I can’t get over how good you taste," John husked, tipping his head up to meet Sherlock’s gaze and slowly licking his lips. "You have no idea the things I want to do to you..."_

_"Tell me?"_

_"I want to swallow you down, feel you filling my mouth...I want to ride you...Think about it. Imagine me on top of you. Imagine my thighs flexing as you dig your fingers into my hips...imagine how hot and tight I’d feel with you buried inside me of me, squeezing you tight..."_

"Well now, this is a fine sight."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed as he jerked back to awareness, trying not to scream in frustration as his hazy daydreams of John whispering his praises and the wicked delight in John's eyes as he prepared to swallow around Sherlock's cock abruptly vanished to be replaced by the reality of John's presence in front of him. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his uncooperative vision to focus. 

John, if possible, looked even better than the last time Sherlock had seen him. The vet had foregone his usual chambray shirt and was instead wearing a dark red one that only made his tan more golden in comparison, especially with the halo of sunlight surrounding him. Sherlock swallowed hard, absurdly glad for the constriction of the protective cup he wore underneath his snug jeans. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock stammered, trying to regain his mental equilibrium. "I thought you were out of town!"

"I was," John confirmed, raising both eyebrows. "I got back this morning. I tried calling earlier, but you didn’t pick up."

"What?" Sherlock demanded inanely, still blinking rapidly as he tried to process what had happened. He pulled out his mobile and stared at the screen: sure enough, there were two missed calls.

"It's Friday, Billy," John explained with an affectionate chuckle. "Did you forget we have a date tonight? I'm hurt," he added with a teasing grin.

"Oh." Sherlock looked down at his sweaty, dusty, hair-covered clothes and flushed in embarrassment. Apparently, the lack of sleep was starting to affect his cognitive ability. Perhaps he should have taken that catnap two days ago. "Ahhh...sorry. If give me twenty minutes, I can freshen up and be ready to go."

"Take your time," John said waving him off with a warm smile. "And drink some water while you’re at it—you look flushed. I'll go check on Molly's horse, Toby, while I wait. She mentioned she was a little concerned about a slow-to-heal bug bite on his neck."

"Of course," Sherlock managed, pushing himself to his feet and trying (unsuccessfully) not to put pressure on his incipient erection. 

Back at his cabin, Sherlock took a hasty—but through—shower to sluice away the sweat and stink of a hard day's work, before slapping on two fresh patches. As he toweled his hair dry, Sherlock tried to decide how he wanted the evening to play out. He hadn’t missed the lines of fatigue in John’s shoulders, nor the faint bags under his eyes. A sensible person would have rescheduled, but John had made the forty-five-minute trip anyway. Ergo, John had missed him. Sherlock pursed his lips in thought. John’s visible exhaustion meant that he would likely be receptive to the idea of a quiet evening in...which would allow him to get the information he needed to conclusively prove either John’s guilt or innocence.

He brushed his teeth thoroughly and gargled with a particularly astringent mouthwash. Since seduction was on his agenda for the evening, the last thing he wanted was for John to be put off by halitosis or poor personal hygiene. His stubble was subjected to a quick trim to neaten everything up and a beard softener treatment to soften the hair and to minimize the chances of tell-tale stubble rash. While the softener did its work, Sherlock turned his attention to his hair, attacking the wet strands with a hair dryer, leave-in conditioner and a comb.

There was at least one advantage to Texas, Sherlock mused as he finished smoothing product into his hair to make his curls lie smoothly instead of exploding into a mess of frizz: low humidity meant that his ridiculously thick hair dried faster. He opted for a pair of shark-grey silk boxer briefs and a snugly-fitting pair of faded denim jeans, but dithered when faced with the row of shirts in his closet. The pink and purple shirt he'd worn the last time he and John had gone a date had been chosen to project an air of fragile innocence in keeping with his persona of a shy virgin. Tonight's plan was a bit more... _carnal_...in nature.

The sage green one complimented his eyes beautifully—a facial feature he knew John admired—but it still had an unsightly stain on one sleeve. The silk aubergine was a bit formal for a 'casual' night in... _Perhaps the red plaid? No..._ Finally, Sherlock settled on a short-sleeved, purple-checked number that was tight enough that the buttons were straining slightly across his chest. He slid his boots on and then turned his attention to his array of tools, trying to ignore the creeping sense of nausea in his gut. 

Four fresh pairs of gloves and several empty baggies went into the front pockets of his jacket. A half-dozen condoms and a few packages of slick went into the matching pocket on the other side. Two clean handkerchiefs were tucked into one of the side pockets. They would be useful both for preventing tell-tale fingerprints and for cleaning up any bodily fluids later if the evening went as planned. His Kingpin HyperX Predator 1TB USB drive (a present from Jim), along with two, smaller backup USB drives went into one of the sealable inner pockets of his denim jacket, while his VuPoint magic wand portable scanner went into another. John didn't seem like the type to keep stacks of papers about, but it was better to plan ahead and not need something than to curse himself for his lack of foresight afterwards, Sherlock reasoned as he double-checked the charge on the device. A lighter and his false-bottomed, metal cigarette case containing vials of flunitrazepam, GHB, ketamine, diazepam, and alprazolam went into an empty side pocket. After another quick moment of deliberation, Sherlock tucked his phone, keys, and wallet into his jacket as well. Carrying them in the pockets of his jeans would only distort the lines of his trousers and add unsightly lumps to his arse.

Sherlock folded his denim jacket over his left arm and did a final mental check of the items he'd packed. Satisfied that he had everything he needed for the evening, Sherlock shut his cabin door and locked it before setting off in search of John.

As promised, John was in one of the barns petting Toby. Molly was thankfully absent. She was intelligent enough to notice if Sherlock responded to John's attempts at flirtation and he still needed to use her blatant attraction to him and his pretense of reciprocal interest to further his own research.

"Wow! That was quick!" John remarked, looking up from where he was scratching Toby's ears. The old gelding was chuffing gently, clearly enjoying the attention.

"I had a reason to be," Sherlock said simply, watching John cross to a handy sink to wash his hands.

"Well all I can say is I'm glad," John replied, drying his hands off. He tucked his thumbs into his belt and gave Sherlock an appraising look, blinking in obvious appreciation. "You look...good."

"Worth the wait?" Sherlock asked, deliberately pitching his voice lower to something sultry. 

"I'll say," John breathed. He stepped forward, licking his lips, and leaned in, his intent to kiss clear.

"Not...not here," Sherlock said, hurriedly leaning back. "You never know who might be walking around and Ms. Ross might have something to say if she finds out her horse whisperer is...fraternizing with her vet."

Both of John's eyebrows crept up towards his hairline, but all he said was "fair enough."

"So...how do you want to handle dinner?" John asked, after a moment of awkward silence. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Do you want to eat here and then, I dunno, grab a movie afterwards? Or would you rather go out?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, trying to decide how to fit the disparate pieces of his plan together. He needed to get back into John's flat if he was going to copy his computer...assuming John actually had his laptop in his flat and hadn't left it at his work. "Are there any good farmers' markets open on Friday nights? Or perhaps a good grocers that carries fresh produce? We could eat in, instead of going to a restaurant." 

"I'm not one much for cooking," John pointed out. "Not unless you _want_ fried eggs and toast for dinner."

"That's no problem. I can make dinner," Sherlock offered, ignoring the odd, slightly puzzled look John gave him in response to his announcement. "I'd rather spend time with you away from prying eyes that might be inclined to gossip about you spending the night in my cabin," Sherlock added, his voice rich with implication.

"Oh," John said, licking his lips. "Well...in that case, sure."

"Good. How about I follow you in my truck, park at your flat and then we can run to the shops together? That way, if I stay late, only one of us has to make the forty-five-minute drive home."

"If you're sure? I mean, I don't mind."

"You might get an emergency call and not have a chance to drive me back," Sherlock countered, thinking of his plans for later that night. Depending on the dosage used, it might take John hours to wake up. "I prefer to work with Devil's Blaze in the morning when it's cooler, but that means you would have to wake up extra early to drive me back in time. If I take my own truck, I can drive back and you can sleep in."

John tipped his head to one side, conceding Sherlock's point. "Good point. In that case, I'll meet you there."

~*~


	20. A Date with Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seduction, smut, and Sherlock being Not Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, author disclaimer/trigger warning here: Sherlock is more than a little Not Good in this chapter. Drugging unsuspecting people's drinks is NOT OKAY, even if it _is_ for a case. If you don't already know that, then got it? Good.
> 
> On a more pleasant note, both dioscureantwins' ['This is where I began' series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/27831) and khorazir's ['The Horse and his Doctor'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3591864) get a large nod here. If you haven't already read these fantastic stories, I encourage you to do so!

~*~

"So what's on the menu tonight?" John asked, watching Sherlock examine—and discard—multiple ears of fresh corn from the produce bin before finding two that met his standards.

"Creamy corn pasta with fresh spinach and basil," Sherlock replied absently. He'd looked up several vegetarian recipes on his phone during their drive to the shops and it was one that seemed easy enough. It contained a suitably-nutritious balance of proteins, carbohydrates, and fiber, with the advantage of being fairly light as well. Sherlock picked up a bunch of flat leaf basil and tore one leaf in half to check the freshness, the way Mycroft had shown him. The sharp, tangy, almost peppery-smelling fragrance that burst forth brought to mind memories of helping their gardener harvest herbs for Cook's use. Satisfied, Sherlock added it to his shopping basket and turned his attention to choosing a bunch of scallions. "Do you have salt and black pepper in your pantry?"

"I think so...yeah."

"Fresh?"

"Ah...it comes in a little paper can?" 

"Nevermind. We can purchase some peppercorns. What about a food processor?" Sherlock asked, thinking of the necessary kitchen implements the recipe had specified. "Do you own one of those?" If not, he would either have to purchase one or revise his menu, since it wasn't possible to sneak downstairs and "borrow" Mrs. Hudson's, the way he would back home.

John blinked and shook his head. "No...but I have a blender if that'll work?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, mentally calculating the probability 'liquefaction' versus 'dicing' and the probable effect on his sauce. John was looking worried, however, so Sherlock flashed him a reassuring smile. "That'll be fine." At worst, the sauce would simply be extra creamy, Sherlock decided, dropping a bulb of fresh garlic, a single red chili pepper, and a pint of grape tomatoes into his basket under John's interested gaze. "Now for the parmesan cheese. Also, do grocers sell wine in Texas?" Sherlock asked, looking around. American shops were quite different from what he was used to on the rare occasions he ventured out to the shops back home in person instead of having foodstuffs delivered by either the Royal Mail or Mrs. Hudson. For starters, they were much, much bigger on the inside.

"Er, yeah. I think the wines are over there," John said, pointing at an aisle near the front. "What are you looking for?"

"A decent white—something dry that will suffice for both cooking and drinking with dinner," Sherlock replied, adding a small tub of flaked parmesan and another of butter to his basket. "Do you have a preference between pinot grigio and sauvignon blanc? An un-oaked Chardonnay would also work if that is what you prefer..." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to see John looking at him with an amused expression. "What?"

"Just...listening to you talk about cooking," John said, shaking his head, his admiration apparent. "You dance, you play violin, you're a pool shark...not to mention the magic you work with horses. Is there anything you don't do?"

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth and pursed his lips as he tried to think of an appropriate response. "Dishes?" he offered, deliberately pitching his voice upward at the end so the inflection signaled a question, rather than a statement.

John laughed. "Fair enough. If you cook, I'll handle the cleanup. And dessert," he added with a wink, his grin growing when Sherlock ducked his chin, feigning bashfulness. 

He forestalled John's anticipated efforts to pay for the groceries by casually 'forgetting' that he needed to grab a lemon and asking John to fetch one while he held their place in line. By the time John returned, Sherlock had already finished paying. To pacify John's pride, he allowed John to purchase the fruit, though the pointed look that John sent him made it clear that John knew full well that he'd been sent on a Snark hunt. John had also grabbed a slice of cinnamon swirl cheesecake and an apple tartlet for dessert of the more conventional kind. Sherlock waited while John paid and within fifteen minutes, they were back at John's tiny apartment.

Once inside, Sherlock commandeered the pseudo-kitchen by spreading his purchases out over the counter while John fiddled with the thermostat in an effort to counteract the room's stale air.

"Are you sure you're okay with this, Billy?" John asked, biting his lower lip as he watched Sherlock pull both the cast-iron skillet and the larger of John's two saucepans out of the bottom cabinet. "I know it's a bit stuffy in here, but I don't usually keep the AC cranked down real low." 

"It's fine," Sherlock replied distractedly, pulling open cabinet doors at random until he located John's blender. "Do you have a chef's knife?"

"I have _a_ knife," John informed him with a bemused twist of his lips. "Second drawer to your left. The cutting mat's in there too."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, opening the indicated drawer and pulling the knife out. He checked the edge and gave a pleased hum. The knife's blade was gratifyingly sharp. It wasn't surprising that John was a person recognized the value of well-cared-for tools, Sherlock mused silently as he began expertly slicing fresh kernels from the two ears of corn and tossing them into the blender. Everything in the flat that he'd seen so far might be worn or perhaps threadbare, but it was also meticulously clean. Even the pots and pans that had obviously been purchased at a second-hand shop. The cast iron skillet was an antique, something that he could reasonably expect to find on Portobello Road, back home. Possibly an heirloom, possibly something John had picked up at a rummage sale. Either way, it was properly seasoned. Mycroft would approve. 

"You're pretty handy in the kitchen," John commented a few minutes later over the noise of the blender as he watched Sherlock sauté the scallions and garlic in the cast iron skillet with a pat of melted butter. The saucepan on the burner behind it held the cooking farfalle pasta.

"Of course," Sherlock replied in an absent voice as he switched the blender off. He lifted the lid to check the consistency of the corn puree and nodded in satisfaction. It certainly matched the recipe's description of a 'thick but pourable liquid'. He added the reserved cup of corn to the skillet of browning butter and scallions. "Cooking's just chemistry," Sherlock pointed out, giving the pan's contents another quick stir before adding a good splash of wine, which sent up a cloud of fragrant steam.

"That may well be…" John agreed, nudging Sherlock to one side so he could pull a cabinet door open. He reached inside, pulled out two plates and a mismatched pair of wine glasses and began setting the table. "But all this—" John gestured with one of the plates he still held, indicating Sherlock, the steaming pans, and the careful arrangement of prepared ingredients and spices lined up on the counter in variously-sized coffee mugs and plastic takeaway lids, "—this seems pretty competent for somebody who claims that he can't cook. This is the kind of setup I'd expect from one of those fancy cooking shows my grandma used to watch, not a horse whisperer."

Sherlock froze, his spoon in midair, mentally cursing himself for his slip-up. He _had_ told John that and John, in an unanticipated burst of intelligence, had _remembered_ it. "According to my elder brother, I can't cook," Sherlock previcarated, desperately hoping that John would accept his explanation. "And in any case, most of the kitchen-related skills I've acquired come from making things for equines, not humans," Sherlock added, turning to give John what he hoped was a rueful smile over his shoulder.

"Oh?" John asked, tilting his head to one side and licking his lips. "What sorts of things do you normally cook when you aren't making meals for starving cowboys?"

"Poultices, salves, liniments, custom feed or supplement blends, all sorts of things," Sherlock replied, his tone hesitant, uncertain of how John might respond. Some vets were rabidly against home remedies, confined to the worldview that if they hadn't learned about a technique or treatment from Uni, it wasn't 'real' medicine. In some cases, their stance was logical: rubbing petrol on a horse to get rid of lice was both dangerous and incredibly stupid, but by the other turn, sometimes using simple poultices for localized infections to supplement a course of conventional antibiotics could dramatically hasten the healing time of a wound. To Sherlock's relief, John just nodded sagely. 

"I met a fellow vet once—coincidentally also named John—who swore by this poultice recipe he got from a jockey he worked with once," John told him. "Said it worked wonders for this really foul-tempered Frisian he had to treat."

"Oh? What was wrong with him?" Sherlock asked, his professional interest immediately piqued. 

"He got a good-sized splinter embedded in his right hind coronet. It didn't get treated for a few days because the horse tried to kill everything in sight, so nobody knew, and then sepsis set in. John was a bit worried that they might have to put the horse down, but between the antibiotics and the jockey's recipe, the Frisian pulled through. I can email him and see if he can get the recipe for you? If you're interested?"

"Yes. Please," Sherlock remembered to add. 

"Sure thing. In the meantime, how about you tell me about some of these poultices you've concocted."

With a last, sideways look at John to confirm that John was in earnest and not taking the piss, Sherlock launched into a detailed explanation of some of the various concoctions he'd created over the years and how he'd experimented with different blends of clay, assorted cereal grains, herbs, essential oils, and salts. 

Rather than looking bored, John's eyes lit up with interest. His subsequent barrage of intelligent questions encouraged Sherlock to move beyond the simple explanations and expand on his theories and detail his scientific methodology, and from there segue into some of his more memorable experiments involving nutrition. The conversational litany held through the rest of the meal prep and through most of dinner. 

"Wait, wait, wait," John interrupted near the end of their meal. He held up a hand, disbelief evident on his features. "Are you seriously telling me that you read a book detailing reports of supposedly carnivorous horses throughout history and thought 'hey, seeing if I can make a carnivore-friendly horse treat' might be a good idea?!"

"It's science, John," Sherlock said reprovingly. "I'm hardly going to intentionally poison a horse in the name of furthering my research—they do consume the protein that is naturally present in soybean meal and linseed meal, as I'm sure you are aware. I simply researched naturally occurring, alternative sources of protein and experimented with different blends until I developed a bar that both met the nutritional standards I sought and was also considered palatable by the horses that sampled it."

"Alternative protein sources?" John repeated skeptically. "Like what...whey?"

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock snapped. "Horses that have been weaned are lactose intolerant. Feeding them products made with whey would only result in digestive problems."

"So...what did you use?" John asked, dropping his chin and fixing his gaze on Sherlock.

"I experimented briefly with raw eggs and Guinness Stout since that is a common protein supplement in the diets of English and Irish racehorses, but most of my research was conducted using insect protein."

"...insect protein..."

"Oh for God's sake, horses do consume insects while grazing, you know!" Sherlock snapped. "That Polish scientist—the one with the heliocentrism theory—never would have gotten anywhere if he'd taken Ptolemy's geocentric model of the universe at face value. Science can only be advanced by experimenting with new ideas and reevaluating what was previously considered 'proven,'" Sherlock argued, using his fingers to add air quotation marks to the word 'proven'. 

"Fair enough," John conceded Sherlock's point. "So...what...kinds of insects did you use?"

"A variety," Sherlock replied, shrugging one shoulder. "As I'm sure you are already aware, equines possess a simple stomach, much like ours—though theirs is also capable of digesting plant fiber. I wanted to test different lipid and protein levels, but I also wanted to avoid potential allergic reactions, so I limited my samples to insects that were considered safe for human consumption: locusts, crickets, silkworm pupae, ants, and several types of beetle larvae."

John pursed his lips, clearly parsing Sherlock's response. Sherlock could almost track the train of John's thoughts by the micro-expressions that flitted across the other man's face: concentration, puzzlement, skepticism, and curiosity. 

"You...tried them yourself?" John predictably asked after a long moment, one sandy eyebrow creeping up almost to his hairline. 

"Of course," Sherlock informed him with another matter-of-fact shrug. "Oh don't be boring, John" he snapped, rolling his eyes at John's expression of acute disgust. "Human cultures all over the world include insects at a part of their standard diet. Insects are both high in fats and protein and utilize far fewer resources than conventional animal husbandry—a fact that is especially pertinent for impoverished areas. As a livestock veterinarian, I'm sure you are aware of the ecological and environmental consequences of cramming hundreds of large animals together in a pasture. For god's sake, that's probably one of the reasons you're a vegetarian!" 

"True," John admitted. "Well that and I'm now allergic to red meat, thanks to a bite from a Lone Star tick." 

"A what?" Sherlock asked, unexpectedly thrown by the non-sequitur.

"It's a type of tick that's native to this area. Little bastards are brown with a white dot on their back, kinda like the Texas state flag. Their saliva contains a sugar called Galactose-alpha-1,3-galactose, or alpha-gal, which is something found in red meat, but not humans." John shrugged. "It's not super-common, but sometimes when a person gets bit their body responds by producing antibodies to fight the alpha-gal, which sets off an allergic reaction anytime they eat red meat. It can take a while to diagnose since symptoms might not show up for hours. It's...not fun." 

"I'd imagine not," Sherlock murmured, slotting the factoid into his mental files about John. There was always something...

John poked at his plate for a moment while studying Sherlock through his lashes. "So...how were they?" John eventually asked, popping another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"How were what?"

"The horse treats." 

"Surprisingly okay," Sherlock admitted. "Well, not the ones made with ants, the chitin got caught in my teeth, which was something I didn't care for. The version made with _tenebrio molitor_ or mealworm larvae had a more neutral taste than the version made with _Rhynchophorus cruentatus._ The supplements made with the desert locusts, _Schistocerca gregaria,_ weren't terrible, but further experiments were regrettably curtailed after an...incident wherein Mrs. Hudson—unbeknownst to me, I might add—ran out of flour for the cake she was baking and borrowed some from my kitchen." 

"Oh Jesus, that poor woman!" John exclaimed, his eyes wide with horror.

"If you are inclined to feel sympathy for anybody, it should be me," Sherlock replied tartly. "It was most inconsiderate of her; she utterly destroyed the colony of _Orthoptera Gryllidae_ I had been raising in that particular container...and then, to add insult to injury, she called in an exterminator to deal with the ones that had escaped from her cake bowl and the resultant fogging killed the rest of my crop!"

John pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking slightly. At Sherlock's glare, he clearly made a manful effort to control himself. "I can't imagine why," John said dryly, his eyes bright with suppressed mirth. "Crickets are loud. Hell, a single one chirping at three in the morning can drive even the most disciplined senior supervising physician on an army base temporarily insane. Particularly if a clever person made sure to hide them well. Still, I can't believe your housekeeper hasn't quit. Especially considering what _else_ you've no doubt put her through over the years."

"Oh, she occasionally threatens to brain me with her favorite skillet, or worse, stop baking me scones," Sherlock admitted. "But for all of her complaints, I think she secretly enjoys it. I know for a fact that she has the best stories for her monthly coffee klatch."

"With a family like yours, I'm not surprised," John agreed, making a final pass with his fork to scrape up the last of the sauce on his plate. "Now that was fantastic and I'm stuffed," John announced, pushing his chair back from the table. He hiccuped slightly and sniffed. "Sorry. 'Scuse me. Okay with you if we wait a bit before dessert?" John asked, tilting his head to one side.

"That's fine." 

"Good." John stood up and began stacking plates and dirty cutlery with deft hands. When Sherlock moved to help, John pushed him back down with a friendly nudge. "Nope. You cooked, I'll clean. That was our deal."

"Even when I was cooking, you helped out by setting the table," Sherlock protested. "That hardly seems like an equitable division of labor."

John pursed his lips, pondering Sherlock's words. "I've got an idea," John announced, wiping his hands off on the seat of his jeans. He walked over to the small entertainment center. A moment later he returned, cradling the antique violin case in his arms. "Here," John said, taking the violin out its case offering the instrument to Sherlock. "How about you play me a song while I clean up?" 

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked, trying not to give away his eagerness. It had been months since he'd played, and the absence of his beloved Guarneri was a persistent, hollow ache in his chest.

"Billy, you're practically drooling," John laughed, his expression affectionate as he watched Sherlock's fingers reverently stroke the violin's neck. John reached out and ran the tip of one finger over the carved tailpiece. "She hasn't had a voice in far too long. Let her sing. Please?"

Bowing his head in acquiescence, Sherlock began to tighten the deliberately loosened strings. He went slowly, cautious of the strings' age; the last thing he wanted to do was over-tighten a string and risk it breaking. The welt a broken string could leave behind when it snapped was painful. Sherlock tested the A, nodding in satisfaction at the pitch and moved on to fine-tuning the D string. John, meanwhile, began busying himself at the counter with handwashing the dirty plates and pans. The clinking sounds of cutlery and china and the swish of the sponge through the soapy water were oddly soothing, a sense of quiet domesticity that Sherlock hadn't even realized he'd missed, reminding him of the odd evening when he'd crept down to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen for company and homemade mince pies. 

Sherlock finished tuning the strings and turned his attention to the bow. He balanced it in one hand, testing the wood and flex. The bow wasn't made of Pernambuco by any means, but the stick still had a satisfactory combination of density and responsiveness. Sherlock quickly snapped off several loose strands of horsehair and tightened the frog's screw. A quick search of the case turned up a small velvet bag containing an old block of rosin. It was far older than he liked but it would have to suffice, Sherlock decided, rubbing the hair of the bow across the cake's surface. When he was satisfied, Sherlock picked up the violin and tucked it beneath his chin. The violin lacked a chin rest and the surface of the wood felt smooth and cool underneath his cheek. "What would you like to hear?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm?" John glanced over his shoulder from where he was busy wiping vegetable oil onto the cast iron skillet Sherlock had used to reseason it. 

"I asked you what you would like me to play," Sherlock repeated with more patience than was his usual wont.

John set the polished skillet upside down in the minuscule oven and shut the door before turning around. "Ahh...anything? You probably know more about music than I do. You pick."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, trying to decide which piece he should perform from his expansive repertoire. John was leaning back against the counter, his posture projecting contentment and anticipation, so he'd probably be receptive to anything Sherlock played. At the same time, Sherlock was well aware that he was out of practice. He wanted to impress John, not put him off. So...something slow and melodic. Something romantic. Something that even John, who likely didn't have even the barest grounding in classical music, could enjoy...but not something famously banal and overplayed, (such as Tchaikovsky's 'Pas De Deux' from his 'Nutcracker Suite'). 

_Oh. Perfect,_ Sherlock thought as a piece came to mind. With a hesitant smile that was only partially feigned, Sherlock began to play Sarasate's arrangement of Chopin's _Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 for Piano and Violin._

"That was beautiful," John breathed when Sherlock finally lifted the bow from the strings and the last notes faded away.

"Something better than 'Oh my darling,' or that drivel called country western?" Sherlock asked, setting the bow down so he could adjust the violin's fine tuners. The pitch was just slightly flat. It was probably indiscernible to John, but to Sherlock's trained ear, it was the auditory equivalent of somebody wearing a set of neon orange and lime green jockey silks. To the shops. 

"Oi! Stereotypes and all that, don't be rude," John mock-scolded, wagging a finger as he watched Sherlock check the pitch of the re-tuned strings. "There are a lot of people in Texas that don't go in for Toby Keith, or worse, Bocephus. Hell, up in Kansas every year, there's a really big folk festival that attracts people from as far away as Japan because of the world-class musicians that get hired to perform there, not to mention all of the instrument championships." 

"Do they now?" Sherlock asked. He had no idea who the people John had mentioned were, but it was likely unimportant.

"Yep. Grandpa Hardwicke used to go there to compete in the National Fiddle Championships."

"Did you go with him?"

John shrugged. "A few times yeah. Some years, he and Grandma would take us on vacations when our parents couldn't. Especially after Dad died. I don't remember much about Winfield itself—I was pretty young—but I do remember camping and falling asleep to the sound of musicians jamming. And Grandma Rosalie making us lavender-blueberry pancakes over the campfire for breakfast." John licked his lips. "If you're still here come September, maybe I can take you. I've even got camping gear if we want to stay overnight—or even for the entire weekend. If not, well, it's only a six-hour drive or so. Not great, but I've certainly driven worse. I'm sure you have too."

"Mmmmm...sounds fun. We'll see," Sherlock agreed, more to throw John off his trail than any real interest in spending time crowded in with countless snoring strangers...though the idea of spending the night in a tent alone with _John_ had a certain amount of appeal. To distract himself from his suddenly-dangerous train of thought, Sherlock plucked the re-tuned strings, before nodding in satisfaction at the pitch. "Any requests?"

John shook his head. "Surprise me."

With a quick, shy grin, Sherlock tucked the violin back under his chin and picked up the bow. He furrowed his brow in concentration, thinking of John's taste in movies, before launching into Massenet's 'Meditation from Thais.' The melody segued into a rendition of Joseph Brackett's 'Simple Gifts', before transitioning into the 'James Bond Theme.' John started and burst into delighted laughter at the sound of the iconic motif, only to fall into respectful silence as the music changed into 'The Army Goes Rolling Along'. Sherlock concluded with much-abbreviated version of Gershwin's 'Rhapsody in Blue' in a private tribute to John's eyes, even if John wasn't aware of it.

"That was amazing," John announced, applauding loudly from his station by the sink. 

"Thank you," Sherlock said simply, trying not to grimace in pain. The expression of delighted wonder on John's face was worth every bit of the burning in his fingertips that came from playing without adequate calluses, Sherlock decided as he clenched and released his left hand in an effort to relieve the cramping of muscles that had grown unaccustomed to the rigours of playing. 

"You said you started learning violin when you were four?" John asked, tilting his head to one side.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, oddly touched and pleased that John had remembered such a trivial, (yet personal) piece of information. "I received my first sixteenth-sized violin as a gift for my fourth birthday and started lessons later that week."

"Wow...that's a long time. Was it your mother's idea, or?"

"It was my father's. He loved music. All types, really, but Beethoven was his favourite composer. Daddy could have been a concert violinist if he'd chosen to do so, but...fate had other plans, as it were."

"Yeah," John's replied ruefully. He raised and lowered both shoulders as he blew out a deep breath. "I know how that goes. If things had worked out differently, I might have been a fourth-generation rancher. But, well, sometimes life has ways of throwing you curveballs and you just have to make the best of the situation." John looked sad for a moment, before purposely assuming a cheerful facade. "Course, if I'd been a rancher, instead of a vet, I might never have met you—and that would be one hell of a shame," John continued with a cheesy wink. "Play me another?"

"Maybe one more," Sherlock demurred. "I'm a bit out of practice..."

"Yeah. You mentioned you left your violin back home."

"Yes. There was no way I was going to risk exposing her to the harsh Texas elements or risk her safety amongst the clumsy, light-fingered idiots in airports or elsewhere," Sherlock explained.

John pursed his lips and gave Sherlock a considering look. "You mentioned she was old, so presumably fragile. I can see not trusting an instrument to a cargo hold, but why not bring her as a carry-on item? Surely that would be safe enough?"

"She's a Guarneri," Sherlock replied before he could think better of it. 

"I have no idea what that means," John informed him. "Is that...what? Like a Stradivarius?" 

"Not...quite," Sherlock demurred, aware that he'd perhaps said too much.

"But valuable?" John pressed.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied warily, unsure where John was going with his line of questioning.

"Ah. I see. You seem very protective of her. Been together long, have you?"

"Yes. She was a gift from my first teacher in honor of my twelfth birthday. Receiving her was the only thing that made the day somewhat bearable."

"Is she gorgeous? Perfect body and mahogany highlights?"

"More auburn than mahogany, but otherwise yes," Sherlock replied absently as he snapped a fraying hair off of the bow, remembering at the last moment to wad it up and stick it in his pocket, rather than letting it fall to the floor the way he would back home. It wouldn't do to appear slovenly in front of John; the almost fanatical, military-neat order that John kept both his flat and vehicle in made it clear that the man considered orderliness next to godliness, or however John Wesley had phrased it in an eighteenth-century sermon...

John licked his bottom lip. "When you say she's worth a lot...how much are we talking? A couple million? Are you secretly rich or something? Do the two of you spend time schmoozing with the billionaires?"

A horrible thought crossed Sherlock's mind and he looked up sharply, preparing to demand the reason for John's incredibly suspicious line of questioning. But his rebuke was forestalled when he caught sight of John's expression. There was no guile in it. Instead, John's eyes were crinkled in amusement and Sherlock could see John's tongue distorting the inside of his left cheek. The purposeful eyebrow waggle and cheeky wink that John sent him made it clear that John was poking fun, rather than making poorly-thought-out plans to steal Sherlock's violin, (which was insured for several million pounds and across the pond besides). But what else could John be implying with his line of questioning?

"Do the two of you like to go out for truffles, champagne, and caviar together?" John added in a cheerfully teasing tone, with another significant look.

_Oh._

Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession, feeling unacceptably stupid as the meaning of John's words suddenly became clear. He'd overheard similar snippets of conversations at the clubs and parties. John was using innuendo. _Again._

Sherlock felt his lips curl up in an involuntary smile. The vet seemed to think about just three things: medicine, rodeos, and Sherlock. It was extremely ordinary...but at the same time, it was...unexpectedly pleasant to be teased on the basis of Sherlock being a _desirable_ companion for somebody, (even though some might take offense at being considered a high-class escort). After another moment to weigh the pros and cons, Sherlock decided to continue the joke. Innuendo would help set the mood for his planned seduction, after all. 

"She is rich beyond your wildest imaginings," Sherlock began, allowing his voice to deepen and become husky. "Her voice—I can't describe it. You just have to hear it. Whenever I hear her sing, I'm filled with passion and lust."

John made a noise deep in the back of his throat that was too soft to be a growl, but the meaning was clear. Sherlock felt a little prickle of danger running up his spine at the sound and an answering thrill in the region of his pelvis. It was a risky game he was playing. Mycroft had warned him about the dangers of hormonal and emotional entanglements, comparing them to the dramatic and somewhat tragic demise of _Lepidopteras_ who foolishly approached conflagrations...

But what did Mycroft know?

"Are you now?" John husked, ducking his chin and locking his gaze on Sherlock's. John's eyes had darkened at Sherlock's words and Sherlock felt his mouth go dry at the unmistakable desire he saw reflected. "And how do you...channel that passion?"

"It depends," Sherlock replied, affecting a graceful shrug and allowing his lips to curl into a smug smile. "Sometimes I like to give myself a bit of a long, slow stroke." He ran the bow across the strings, making the instrument's soundboard throb. "Sometimes I like to play a bit with my G-string,' he added, plucking the wire in question. "I also have to make sure to rosin my bow from time to time. Friction is important to a good...performance."

"That it is," John agreed, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. "Anything else?" 

"Mmmmm...sometimes I like to practice different fingerings," Sherlock replied, mostly to see John's reaction. He was not disappointed. John's already-hot eyes went molten as he watched Sherlock's fingers play suggestively over the fingerboard.

"Is that so?" John husked, licking his lips as his pupils dilated even further.

"Mmmmm..." Sherlock hummed low and sultry in the back of his throat. "Not to mention the importance of a good...vibrato to enhancing one's...pleasure."

"You know...that sounds really, really good, Billy, but there's might be something...missing from your performance," John commented, pushing himself away from the counter and moving to stand in front of Sherlock.

"And what's that?" Sherlock asked innocently. 

"Just...well...self-pleasure is all well and good, but sometimes doing everything solo can be a little...lonely," John informed him, reaching out and laying his fingers lightly—so lightly—on Sherlock's hips. "Some things are better with a partner."

"Are you offering to help me?" Sherlock asked, ducking his chin and raising an eyebrow in silent challenge. At the same time, he deliberately bent his knees and canted his pelvis forward so he was closer to John's height. 

"Oh God yes," John growled, accepting the dare. He stepped forward, fisting both hands in the front placket of Sherlock's shirt to tug Sherlock forward and down while simultaneously rising up on the balls of his feet so he could claim Sherlock's lips in a rough kiss.

"Mmmppppfh!" Sherlock agreed, concentrating on heat and texture of John's lips. John kissed with a single-minded focus and enthusiasm that made resistance pointless. Close-mouthed kissing, by all rights, should be boring, (though far less unsanitary), but like John himself, it was anything but. John kept tilting his head to different sides, varying the pressure he applied to Sherlock's mouth in a seductive tease that made Sherlock want to chase him for more heat, more pressure, more tongue.

It was delightfully maddening. 

When John finally, _finally_ parted his lips to case around Sherlock's bottom lip and suck, Sherlock felt his knees unexpectedly buckle at the jolt of sensation that went straight from his mouth to his groin. If it hadn't been for John's strong hands clasping him around the waist, he almost certainly would have fallen to the floor. 

Desperate for more contact, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back, fully intending to pull the other man even closer so he could grind against him, but the faint, hollow-sounding thump of wood against muscle brought his attention back to the precious violin and bow he still held. 

"Wait, wait," Sherlock gasped, wrenching his head away with difficulty. To his disappointment, John not only stopped immediately, John removed his hands from Sherlock's waist and took a large step backwards as well.

"What's wrong?" John asked, his eyes worried. "Did I scare you? Did you not want—"

"No," Sherlock exclaimed, frantically looking around for the case. "It's not that—I do, very much—just, let...me...put...your violin down before I drop it!" 

John chuckled and rubbed ruefully at the back of his neck, even as he stepped even further out of range. "Actually...we should probably take this as a sign to slow down. There are ah...a few things we need to talk about first before we go any further."

"Talk?" Sherlock repeated. He didn't care if the repetition made him sound inane; he was more than a little irked that his brilliant plan to shove John against the nearest vertical surface and snog him within an inch of his life was being thwarted. 

"Yes, talk," John said firmly, ignoring Sherlock's protruding lower lip. "Go ahead and put the violin away first." 

Sherlock knew his expression was mulish, but he couldn't help it. Kissing John resulted in an endorphin rush comparable to riding in cross-country steeplechase—with a fraction of the inherent danger. The pointed look John sent him, however, made it clear that further kissing would have to wait. Actually, with hindsight, it was probably a good thing he'd still been holding the violin and bow, Sherlock decided resentfully as he began loosening the bow's tension. Shoving John against a wall, or reaching down and grabbing a double handful of John's arse and squeezing wasn't quite appropriate for his portrayal of a somewhat awkward, shy, gay and mostly virginal horse whisperer.

As delectable as John Watson's arse was.

John, meanwhile, picked up his mostly empty glass of wine and the chardonnay bottle in one hand, grabbed one of the folding chairs with the other, and carried everything into the main part of the flat. "Join me?" John asked, setting the folding chair down across from the armchair and holding the bottle of wine up invitingly.

Sherlock pressed his lips together briefly in aggravation before picking up his own glass and following John. The sooner they got the talking over and done with, the sooner they could get back to the seducing and fornicating portion of the evening. _And the acquisition of John Watson's computer files,_ Mycroft's ruthless voice in the back of Sherlock's mind whispered. 

"Can I pour you a bit more wine?" John asked once Sherlock had taken his indicated seat.

"Why John," Sherlock purred, making sure to give John a sultry look through his lashes. "Are you trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me?"

"Only if that's what you want," John replied, giving Sherlock a cheerful leer as he topped off both of their glasses with the last of the Chardonnay. "But speaking of having my way with you—or you with me—we should probably discuss some things first. That way we know we're on the same page," John added with a nervous cough at Sherlock's raised eyebrow. 

Caught off balance, Sherlock tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes as he studied John's sudden blush. Memories of some of the more sordid practices of his Uni classmates, (not to mention a few of the clients he'd encountered over the years, or the newspaper stories he'd read about "Mr. Hands") sprang to mind...followed by some of Victor's more cutting japes about Sherlock's sexual learning curve. "Is this the part where you inform me you're into fuzzy animal role play, recreational scolding or sucking on a person's nose—a practice known as nasolingus?" Sherlock began, hoping his icy tone would disguise his sudden feeling of insecurity. "I may practically be a virgin, compared to you at least—especially if your reputation is any indicator, but if you're worried that I'm not going to be able to keep up with you in bed—" 

John started, choked on his wine and began coughing. "What? Oh God no, no, nothing like that," he spluttered, shaking his head emphatically when he could speak again. "I just meant that I wanted to talk about our respective histories—sexual histories, I mean."

Sherlock blinked, realizing that he'd badly miscalculated. "Oh," he mumbled, trying to hide his mortification at allowing his jealousy and insecurity to run rampant. Sherlock took a quick sip of his wine to disguise his flaming cheeks. As much as it pained him to admit it, Mycroft's oft-repeated lectures about the folly of allowing one's emotions to influence one's actions apparently had merit. 

"Err...I'll go first," John offered after an awkward pause. He took a gulp of his wine in a display of Dutch courage. "I have herpes—the HSV-2 strain specifically, though I take valacyclovir daily for suppressive therapy and to reduce the risk of accidentally spreading it to another partner. I don't do unprotected sex anymore and I'm negative for everything else. What about you?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together behind the screen of his glass in thought, stubbornly ignoring the small voice inside his brain that was screaming that this was a Bad Idea. It hadn't stopped him from trying to ride his mother's prize stallion. It hadn't stopped him from trying the intriguing smelling contents of the bottle the family's gardener kept locked up in a cabinet, and it certainly hadn't stopped him from trying the pills Victor had offered him at a party. Instead, he concentrated on the feeling of heat suffusing his body and the burgeoning heaviness in his groin. Sherlock glanced up again to study John's gently-encouraging expression. He needed to answer in a way that was both honest, yet true to Billy's characterization as a nervous but eager mostly-virgin. It wouldn't be especially hard: the most believable lies were the ones grounded in truth, after all. The trick would be to include enough sordid details to keep John from questioning him for specifics. Blowing out his breath, Sherlock lowered his wine glass and laced the fingers of both hands around the bowl.

"I don't have a lot of practical experience," Sherlock began, purposely making his voice hesitant. He punctuated the statement with a nervous lip-lick.

"What? In that case, how the hell do you know about weird fetishes anyway?" John predictably interrupted, his attention no-doubt caught by 'virginal Billy Scott's' hitherto unsuspected carnal knowledge. 

"I did a lot of extra-curricular reading in secondary school," Sherlock replied with a vague wave of one hand, grateful for the brief change of subject. "The librarian, Mr. Wong, liked me quite a bit. He was always finding me interesting new books to read." It was a lie. In actuality, Mr. Wong would probably have viewed Sherlock as a cross between John Charles Gilkey and Gary McKinnon if Sherlock had been foolish enough to get caught, considering his penchant for using his lock-picking skills to break into the school's library after hours and Mycroft's lessons in coding and human behavior analysis to circumnavigate the internet and computer security protocols Mr. Wong had installed. "As a result, I speak Latin, can recite the entire periodic table from memory and have memorized the lineage of the Darley Arabian—the stud whose Y chromosomes are now found in over ninety-five percent of all male thoroughbreds, too."

"Wait, what's the Darley Arabian?" John interrupted, furrowing his brow.

"It was a colt that was purchased for stud in Aleppo and brought over to England by Thomas Darley in 1704," Sherlock explained. "It was part of a genetic study done by Trinity College a few years ago. The reason why the Darley Arabian's genes are so prominent is because he sired Flying Childers—considered by many to be the first great racehorse and his son, Bartlet's Childers founded the Eclipse line of thoroughbreds. Breeders and horse owners wanted the best possible genes for their own stables, so they focused on the offspring of winners."

"Huh," John commented, clearly impressed. He pursed his lips for a moment then shook his head. "Sorry. I shouldn't have interrupted. You were saying that you didn't have a lot of practical experience?"

"I've only had one prior sexual partner," Sherlock replied slowly, watching John's patient expression for micro-cues on how to shape his story. "It was a long time ago and we were both fairly young. _True._ We didn't do much beyond hand jobs and frottage." 

_Not true._ Victor had possessed the typical high libido of a stereotypical young buck, with an almost single-minded focus on either getting high, getting off or some combination of the two. He'd been an enthusiastic recipient of fellatio, (though he balked at performing it; the times he did were usually because he wanted something). Victor had been likewise a fan of 'topping'. 'Bottoming' however, had been right out, since Victor's personal masculine identity couldn't handle any role other than that of 'inserter'. With bitter hindsight, Sherlock could recognize that at the time he had been too lonely and too pathetically grateful to have a friend to protest the skewered power dynamics, and too afraid of frightening Victor off to have any sort of meaningful discussions about what _he_ wanted to try. It probably also factored into his general disinterest in sex and romantic entanglements...at least until John had come along...

"Billy?" John prompted gently.

"Sorry," Sherlock apologized, recognizing with some consternation that he'd once again gotten lost inside his mind. "Victor's and my relationship...didn't end well," which was an understatement, to say the least. "We always used protection for our encounters, but I still got myself tested several times after we broke up just to make certain. I haven't been with anybody since then. I'm clean." All true, though actual events differed slightly from the story he was telling. Even in the worst of his drug-fueled binges, he'd been careful to use clean needles and never shoot up in the presence of strangers. Mycroft had been relentless about making sure his baby brother got tested repeatedly during his enforced stints in rehab and had made subsequent testing a condition of Sherlock's continued access to his trust fund and his work as a freelance consultant for the British Horseracing Authority afterwards. It was a small price to pay for not being bored most of the time. 

"And how are we feeling about this?" John asked, leaning forward, his hands still clasped around his glass of wine. At Sherlock's narrowed gaze, John shrugged, wordlessly indicating the entire situation.

"Apprehensive...nervous," Sherlock eventually replied.

"Why?" John asked, taking another drink of his wine before tipping his head to one side and fixing Sherlock with a penetrating look.

"I...don't know much about sex," Sherlock dissembled, purposely making his tone hesitant and visibly tightening his fingers around his own glass. "I'm...worried you'll find me dull...that you won't think I'm worth it."

"Billy, there is no way in _hell_ you could _possibly_ be dull," John retorted, shaking his head emphatically.

"I'm glad you think so because I...like you. Quite a bit. I would very much like to continue having sex with you," Sherlock admitted, feigning shyness. _True and true._

"Okay," John said, the relief in his voice evident. "We can do as much—or as little—as you want, at whatever pace you feel comfortable with. And for the record, there is _nothing_ wrong with taking things slow. I enjoy a bit of a cuddle along with more...vigorous pastimes."

John's expression was so earnest, so _understanding_ that Sherlock felt another, unexpected surge of guilty bile rise in the back of his throat at his ongoing deception. To distract himself, he set his half-empty glass off to one side and slid forward, exchanging the armchair for the comfort of straddling John's lap. 

"Ooohf," John grunted, setting his own mostly-full glass down on the floor before wrapping his arms around Sherlock's torso obligingly. "You're awfully heavy for such a lanky-looking fella," he complained teasingly.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, shaping the infliction of his voice upward, while simultaneously ducking his chin and raising both eyebrows. He punctuated the question with a slow double-blink to indicate insecurity, though the burgeoning hardness he could feel from John's groin made the answer obvious.

"Nope," John replied, drawing out the word and shaking his head. His fingers flexed once against Sherlock's hips before relaxing. "It's fine. It's all fine," John added with a smile. 

"Good." To please himself, Sherlock rubbed his nose in John's hair and inhaled. John had showered at the clinic prior to driving out to pick Sherlock up, Sherlock deduced. John's normal, generic-brand body-wash had been replaced by something a bit more astringent, something almost medicinal smelling. He'd used a different deodorant as well, Sherlock noted when he ducked his head down so he could sniff at one of the shoulders of John's shirt. 

"Scenting me like one of your horses?" John asked dryly, his arms still clasped lightly around Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock glanced down and gave a half-hearted shrug. "Yes," he admitted. "You smell...different."

"Different good, or different bad?"

"Neither. Just different. You showered at the clinic before you drove out to pick me up—something messy. Perhaps an emergency that you couldn't, in good conscience leave before resolving, perhaps a patient took longer than planned slipped and landed in something vile while rushing out of your office. Whatever it was, it was something that necessitated staying late and bathing at the clinic rather than leaving on time as planned so you could take a shower at home."

John's forehead crinkled in confusion. "How can you tell?"

"You have a small nick on your jaw from where you cut yourself while shaving. Either an unfamiliar razor or an older one you keep there for emergencies. You used a different shampoo to wash your hair, and you also used an aerosol deodorant that—while not terrible—is a bit more floral than the products you usually wear. Finally, your shirt is clean and freshly ironed, but it also smells a bit musty, as though it's been hanging in a locker for a while. Ergo, something came up and you had to revise your schedule so you could meet me at the Triple C on time. Am I correct?"

"Of course you are, you amazing man," John chuckled, shaking his head slowly in admiration. "And for the record, that was unbelievable. We got a call around 3:30 about a trail horse and an idiot greenhorn who tried to jump a barb wire fence like in the movies."

"Was it serious?"

"Messy, more than anything," John told him. "The cuts weren't too deep, but they were definitely big enough to require stitching. The rider, however, well that's another story." John's expression was just a little evil. "It's enough to make me believe in divine justice."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, raising one eyebrow, "do tell."

"He ended up seeing daylight and landed smack dab in the middle of a mess of Indian figs."

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to slot the terms John had used against his mental library of local colloquialisms and native botanical flora. 'Seeing daylight' was a rodeo slang term referring to a rider coming far enough off the horse that daylight was visible between the rider's posterior and horse's back, but the term 'Indian figs' was unknown. 

"Prickly pear," John supplied, apparently discerning Sherlock's confusion.

Sherlock winced; he'd already had one unpleasant encounter with the cactus himself and had firsthand experience knowledge of how much the macroscopic spines burned and how hard it was to remove them. Still, it was no more than the idiot deserved. "Serves him right," Sherlock said aloud. 

"That's what I thought too," John agreed, brushing his nose against Sherlock's before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. 

With a rumble of approval, Sherlock kissed back. John's lips were softer than last time—less chapped, more moisturized. Clearly John had taken to using some sort of lip balm, he noted, returning John's teasing little smooches. It was good, Sherlock decided, but it wasn't _enough_ He wanted more. But before he could do more than bring one hand up to cup the back of John's neck in preparation for intensifying his oral assault, John pulled back, their lips parting with a little smacking sound.

"Billy?" John whispered, his hot breath ghosting across Sherlock's mouth.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock asked, preparing to dive back in. John's bottom lip was slightly swollen from arousal and he wanted to nibble it...

"Not that I mind having a lapful of sexy cowboy," John began, unhelpfully pulling his mouth out of Sherlock's reach, "but this chair isn't very comfortable. My legs are falling asleep. I'm gonna change places. Hold on a sec, okay?"

Before Sherlock had time to do much more than squeak in surprise, John hooked his hands under Sherlock's arse, stood up, turned around, took two steps backwards and resumed his seat in the comfortable armchair that Sherlock had so recently vacated. 

"There," John announced, settling back with a satisfied sigh. "That's better," he continued, reaching up and threading the fingers of one hand through Sherlock's curls and urging Sherlock's head downward. "Now where were we?" John purred rhetorically as he brushed his lips gently against Sherlock's in a portent of what was to come. 

Sherlock blinked rapidly as John resumed their interrupted snogging session, completely stunned by the absolute ease with which John had relocated them both. He knew John had to be strong—most large-animal vets were—but he had to outweigh John by a good two stone of solid muscle and John had picked him up as if he weighed no more than a kitten. The number of possible sexual positions John's strength could facilitate was dizzying. He couldn't wait to start experimenting, something Victor had had very little interest in. He could ride John while John pinned him against a wall and supported his weight, or they could try the cliff diver, where John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist and used the muscles in his biceps and triceps to support himself while Sherlock thrust into him from behind. They could try the see-saw or flying...or the hanging feedbag where he performed fellatio while John suspended his weight from above...or they could try the standing cowboy, which was only fitting considering where they currently were...

"Billy? You okay?" 

The concern in John's voice penetrated the haze of Sherlock's mind and he shook his head, realizing that John had stopped kissing him and was now watching him with some consternation. "Sorry," Sherlock rasped. "You're stronger than I'd privately estimated. It was giving me...ideas." 

"Was it now?" John asked, the tense line of his shoulders relaxing. He smirked in response to Sherlock's enthusiastic nod and began slowly running his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs in a firm caress, his thumbs inching teasingly closer to Sherlock's groin. "In that case, is there anything...special you want to try?"

The unbridled carnality in John's voice and the heat of his hands was almost enough to derail Sherlock's thought process entirely. With some shock, he realized that if it hadn't been for the fact that his professional pride was at stake, (and the risk of Mycroft's censure) he would have abandoned the case entirely in favor of the hedonistic temptation that John offered. Who _wouldn't_ fall for a man who made him laugh, was openly appreciative of both Sherlock's physical attributes and his many quirks and was intelligent enough to follow Sherlock's more technical explanations of some of his experiments? 

Instead, Sherlock swallowed hard in a desperate bid to refocus on his endgame for the night.

"I...enjoyed you taking my truck blowjob virginity. A lot," he managed. "I would like to do that again...only...maybe I could return the favor?" Sherlock asked, purposely licking his lips and then leaving them parted in blatant invitation. It wasn't strictly a lie. The thought of wrapping his mouth around John's reputably enormous member did hold enormous appeal, even if mutual carnal satisfaction wasn't the sole objective; drugging John and copying his laptop files was. 

John clearly found the idea appealing too, because his dark-blue eyes went molten and the sound he made when Sherlock leaned forward and re-captured his mouth was somewhere between a growl and a moan.

Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, silently inviting John in. After a moment, he felt John's tongue began to brush teasingly against his bottom lip before dipping inside. Feigning shyness, Sherlock returned the gesture. It was wonderful. John tasted faintly of wine, and a bit like basil. It was a heady, tangy combination, made better by the thrumming of John's pulse that he could feel through the thumb that was resting on John's carotid artery. John clearly took Sherlock's touch as encouragement and responded by deepening the kiss. 

Sherlock whimpered as John's tongue swept across his own in a heated tangle. Moving on instinct, he ground his hips against John's. The sensation of the reciprocal throbbing hardness of John's erection against his own was exquisite.

"Oh...Jesus," John hissed, digging his fingers into Sherlock's hips as he bucked up.

"Not quite," Sherlock corrected as he turned his attention to John's neck. The golden skin was practically begging for a bruise...

"Dick," John retorted, bucking again as Sherlock latched his lips around a mouthful of skin and began sucking. The chair chose that moment to give an ominous creak. "Oh shit," John giggled. "We're gonna break the furniture at this rate. Budge up for a sec so we can move to someplace a little more comfortable."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, releasing John's neck reluctantly and sliding backwards off of John's lap, only to stagger as his legs refused to support his weight.

"Woah, easy there now," John chided gently, his hands catching Sherlock's to offer support. He stood, which allowed Sherlock to lean against John's strong chest in a show of weakness that was only partially feigned. "I've got you," John continued soothingly as he backed them up slowly through the curtain surrounding his bed. He gave a gentle push and Sherlock fell backwards, landing on the substandard mattress. "Just to make absolutely certain that we're on the same page, is this still fine?"

"Obviously," Sherlock grunted, trying to glare up at John and failing miserably. 

"Good." Sherlock heard the huff of suppressed smugness in John's tone. "That's very good," John continued, his voice going even huskier as he leaned over Sherlock and braced his arms on either side of Sherlock's torso. His hands sank into the mattress, bringing him even closer. The pose also allowed the neck of John's shirt to gape just a bit, offering a tantalizing glimpse of John's clavicle and the shadowed vee of his pecs. "I have to say, I like having you here, in my bed."

"Oh for God's sake, get down here so I can kiss you again!" Sherlock huffed sulkily, giving in to temptation and tugging on John's shirt. 

"Nope. Boots first," John ordered, moving to kick off his own footwear.

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled as he struggled to toe off his boots without letting go of his grip on John's shirt. His awkward sprawl on the bed made it difficult to do so, but he eventually managed. Boots were followed quickly by socks, making him grateful for his tendency to practice picking up things with his toes. "Better?" he challenged.

"Much," John agreed with a good-natured laugh, flopping down to lie beside Sherlock. The small size of the twin mattress meant that they had to press together, chest to chest to both fit, but from Sherlock's standpoint, that was hardly a problem. 

"Woah there, slow down Billy," John ordered with a chuckle as Sherlock leaned forward to nip eagerly at the skin of John's throat. "We've got all the time in the world," John continued, placing one palm flat against Sherlock's chest. He gave Sherlock a gentle shove backwards, putting a scant two inches between their respective torsos. "I've been wanting to do this for weeks—I could hardly think of anything but you while I was gone. Now that I'm back, I'm going to damn well take my time and enjoy myself. Okay?" Correctly interpreting Sherlock's rapid blinking as agreement, John leaned in to inhale at the sensitive skin just underneath Sherlock's jaw. "I know I've said this before, but you smell fucking fantastic," John murmured, the sensation of his lips against Sherlock's throat making Sherlock tremble. 

"Hmmmmm," Sherlock rumbled, tilting his throat back to grant John better access. 

With a soft noise of satisfaction, John threaded the fingers of his left hand through the curls at the base of Sherlock's skull and tugged, using the pressure of his hand to gently pull Sherlock's head back and to the side. "Still good?" John asked, ghosting his lips along Sherlock's cheekbones.

"I, oh...yes," Sherlock agreed, his words ending on a gasp as John carefully took the lobe of Sherlock's left ear between his teeth and began a sensual assault involving hot breath, teeth and tongue.

Sherlock choked, his eyes slamming shut. He'd forgotten how many nerve endings the human ear contained—not as many as an equine's of course, but still a sufficient number to make him arch in shocked arousal. His hands scrabbled at John's torso, desperately seeking something to anchor him in the rising tide of sensation. One hand fisted in the collar of John's shirt while the other wrapped around John's waist, pulling the shorter man even closer. He felt lightheaded. Dizzy. Like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. "John," Sherlock chanted, vaguely aware that his voice had gone high and thready, "John, John, John, I can't...I"

"Too much?" John asked, pulling back. Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes. John was looking down at him, one eyebrow raised, his blue eyes rife with concern.

"No," Sherlock panted, shaking his head emphatically. "It's good. It's very good. I just...don't want it to be over too soon. I didn't realize how sensitive my ears are. Nobody's ever done that to me before." 

John grinned, his expression decidedly mischievous. "I have to say, it doesn't hurt my ego a bit to hear I almost got you off just from nibbling your ear."

"Don't mock me, John."

"Oh trust me, I'm not. I find both adorable and incredibly sexy."

"Adorable?" Sherlock repeated, wrinkling his nose in disgust at John's choice of adjective, even as endorphins continued to thrum through his system.

"Mmmmmm..." John agreed. "Yes. Adorable. And about as menacing as a kitten, the way you're glaring up at me."

Sherlock sniffed and folded his arms, looking away. It was only partially a ploy. 

With a sigh, John propped himself on one elbow and used his free hand to nudge Sherlock's face towards him. "Oh don't be like that," John scolded, brushing his thumb across Sherlock's protruding lower lip. 

"Being considered adorable is not the same as being considered sexually desirable, John," Sherlock said tartly.

"You think not?" John asked, one eyebrow rising in challenge. "You want me to show you how wrong you are?"

"You can try," Sherlock sniffed, mentally calculating how John would respond to the provocation. 

John's right eyebrow rose impossibly higher and Sherlock's next conscious thought was challenging John to foreplay was like being sexed to death by a whirlwind. John hadn't even undone his shirt or gotten Sherlock's trousers off, and the only thing he could think of was the endorphins flooding his system, how ridiculously aroused he was, and the incredibly urgent need to get off. With great effort, Sherlock managed to raise his head to stare at his sensual tormenter.

"You want something, Billy?" John asked, looking up and meeting Sherlock's from his position by the foot of the bed. His voice was innocent, as though he hadn't just spent the last ten minutes describing in lurid and explicit detail the things he wanted to do to Sherlock's feet...and hands...and ears...and nipples… When Sherlock failed to respond, John did something sinful with his thumbs to the ball of Sherlock's left foot that sent a bolt of warmth through his foot and up his leg. 

Sherlock felt his eyes roll back in his head. His head fell back into John's pillow with a muffled thump. _Of all the times to learn that he had a foot rub fetish..._ "Ooohhhh…God...Jawwwwnnn," Sherlock managed, despite his tongue having gone thick and slow.

"Was that a 'why yes, please keep going?'" John teased, releasing Sherlock's foot and rising up on his knees so he could smooth his palms over Sherlock's shins and up his thighs. His thumbs kept their gentle, kneading circles, finding and releasing tension points Sherlock hadn't even known he'd had. "Do you believe me _now_ when I tell you how attractive I find you?"

"For the love of God, get up here so I can kiss you again!" Sherlock begged, grabbing desperately at John's biceps and tugging the other man up towards the head of the bed. With a chuckle, John obliged, moving up and blanketing Sherlock with his body, before tilting his head down to reclaim Sherlock's mouth with a predatory purr.

Sherlock moaned as he parted his lips and John took full advantage of the motion to plunder Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. It was hot and wet and languid and _brilliant_. Who knew that such an ordinary muscle could be capable of invoking such sensations? Sherlock wondered as John's tongue tangled with his own in a slow, slick slide that reminded him of dancing—the give and take, the leader and the follower...the hunter and the hunted... 

Restlessly, Sherlock ran his hands over John's back, alternately digging his fingers in and smoothing it with his palms. He could feel the heat radiating from John's skin and the flex and play of muscles underneath the fabric, but it wasn't _enough_. Suddenly desperate to touch John's bare skin, Sherlock moved his hands around to John's front and began feeling for John's shirt placket. A moment later, he snorted in frustration. He couldn't reach it from his current position.

"Something wrong, Billy?" John panted, breaking the kiss to give Sherlock a concerned look.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, pushing on John's shoulders in an effort to get John to rise up and give him some room to work. 

"Fuck. What is it?" John asked, his shoulders rigid with sudden tension as he pushed himself up and braced his arms on either side of Sherlock's torso and holding himself there. 

"You are entirely overdressed," Sherlock complained as he squirmed underneath John so he could take advantage of the sudden space to work while another part of his mind gleefully reveled in the casual display of John's strength. 

John's shoulders relaxed, but he didn't lay back down. "Am I now?" John asked instead, ducking his head to watch Sherlock. His tongue slid out to lick his bottom lip.

"Yes," Sherlock huffed, still struggling with John's dratted buttons. Since when did his hands become so shaky and uncooperative? The top two buttons finally parted, revealing a mouth-watering sliver of tanned chest and sculpted muscles, but when he tried to begin working on the third one down, the slippery plastic disk kept slipping out of his fingers.

"Hold on, let me," John ordered, bending his knees and pushing himself backwards so he was kneeling, with one leg straddling each of Sherlock's hips. "You okay there, Billy?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk shaping his lips. "I'm not crushing you, am I? Do you want me to move?" 

Sherlock dithered between nodding and shaking his head frantically. Part of him really, really wanted to grind against the sudden, delicious weight against his groin, but if he did, it would likely inhibit John's ability to remove his shirt and he wanted the offending garment _off_...

Clearly recognizing Sherlock's dilemma, John _—the infuriating bastard—_ Sherlock thought, only smirked more broadly as he began fiddling with the buttons of his cuffs.

"Wait…just…a…tic…" John scolded, slapping Sherlock's hands away and ignoring Sherlock's frustrated whimper when his offer of assistance was rejected. John finished pulling his hands free of the cuffs and swiftly finished undoing the buttons down the front before tossing the garment over his shoulder with an absent-minded flick of his wrist. The fabric landed on the floor with a soft rustle, joining John's cowboy boots. "Better?" John asked innocently, resting his hands on his flexed quads in a pose that accentuated the ridges of his abdominals and the muscle definition of his arms and shoulders. At the hitch of Sherlock's breath, one of John's eyebrows rose up and innocent expression transformed into a confident smirk as he met Sherlock's hungry gaze. "See anything you like?"

Did he see anything he liked? Did John take him for some sort of an _idiot?_ Sherlock wondered as he studied the man above him with a mouth gone as dry as the sands in the Gobi desert. Any unbiased mind would agree with his private assessment that John was the pinnacle of masculine perfection. The caramel shade that Sherlock had previously admired extended all over John's torso—a clear indicator that John spent at least some time outside working without a shirt, though the tan on his hands below his wrist and above the collar of his shirt was darker, indicating that working without wearing a shirt was an exception, rather than the rule...

"—Billy? You okay? You've been blinking at me for something like a full minute now. This is getting kinda scary—Alright. We're done here, I'm gonna get off now—" The sound of John's increasingly worried voice cut through the buzz of Sherlock's brain, kickstarting him back in action.

"Don't you dare!" Sherlock growled, surging upright to wrap both arms around John's hips and making the other man to 'ooph!' in surprise. 

"Jesus, Billy! I was wondering where you went there for a sec! Everything okay? What happened?"

"I got distracted," Sherlock replied simply as he began greedily smoothing his palms over John's bared flesh. The sensation of calluses over sensitive skin caused John to huff in ticklish bemusement, but Sherlock ignored him in favor of exploring. John's skin felt burning hot to the touch, putting Sherlock in mind of the heat an Arabian or a thoroughbred radiated after a race or a solid workout. The efficiency was still stuffy—despite John having cranked up the air conditioning—but Sherlock found he really didn't mind, not when John's skin was faintly dewed with sweat that he wanted to lap up. Giving in to temptation, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a trail of kisses along John's sternum before ending with a kiss to John's lips. "You are...exquisite," Sherlock rumbled when they finally parted for air.

John's lips quirked. "I've never been called that before, but thanks. Speaking of exquisite though…" John reached out to flick a finger against one of the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. "Now you." Without waiting for an answer, John ducked his head to concentrate, his tongue peeking out slightly between his lips. It made sense—the shirt was tight enough to be straining slightly across Sherlock's chest, and because it was brand-new, the button holes hadn't yet been broken in.

Sherlock barely managed to suppress a shiver of apprehension as John's deft fingers moved up his torso. It was just transport. God alone knew how many idiots ended up naked in bed together after sharing a meal—it was practically standard date behavior. He'd lost count of the number of quick-and-dirty mutual masturbatory sessions he'd shared with Victor in the nearest loo, or the countless times where Victor had buggered him while they were both high. John had already sucked him off in a pickup truck in the desert, so it wasn't like John hadn't seen his penis but for some reason, John undressing him felt more intimate, as if John were somehow revealing parts of him that he usually kept hidden away.

John, meanwhile, undid the last button. With a pleased smirk, he straightened up and tugged the tails free from Sherlock's jeans, before parting the fabric to bare Sherlock's chest to his avid gaze.

Sherlock swallowed hard, suddenly feeling uncomfortably exposed as the cool air brushed over his overheated skin and his chest erupted in goosebumps. His primary plan depended on John's post-coitol relaxation...what if John didn't like was he saw?

The light was dim, but even then it was enough to turn his absurdly pale skin sallow, (where it wasn't burned red) and highlight his transport's imperfections: his scant musculature, his sparse chest hair, his bony ribs, the constellation of moles that dotted his pectorals, the crescent-shaped scar from where a hoof had struck him, the trio of lash marks he'd acquired defending a mare against an abusive owner, the old acne scars and the newer, darker mottling of bruises from his recent work with Devil's Blaze... Sherlock bit the inside of his bottom lip mortification as he continued to mentally tally his transport's flaws. His torso in no way resembled John's perfect, compact, golden, muscular form. John by all rights should be horribly appalled, if not outright disgusted. Sherlock opened his mouth to apologize, convinced that he was going to have to go with his backup plan, but before he could say anything, John spoke. 

"Oh my god…just look at you," John whispered, his tone unmistakably reverent as he reached out and slowly smoothed his left hand over Sherlock's belly. John's fingertips skimmed lightly over the delineations of Sherlock's abdominal muscles before sliding up to ghost over one of Sherlock's larger scars, tracing the edges with remarkable gentleness. 

Sherlock shivered, both in relief that John wasn't repulsed and at the contrasting sensations caused by the rough rasp of John's callused hands over his own, overheated, sweat-slicked skin. "John?" Sherlock asked, his voice embarrassingly shaky.

"You are so goddamn gorgeous…" John breathed, his eyes wide, still staring at Sherlock's chest, visibly drinking in all the details. The reverence in John's voice was like a balm to Sherlock's soul and Sherlock found himself relaxing in spite of his nerves. "You're a fucking work of art…," John continued, licking his lips. "You look like one of those Greek statues we studied in school…all perfect alabaster skin and godlike proportions." John leaned forward, cupping Sherlock's jaw tenderly and claiming his lips in another heated kiss. "Jesus, the things I'm gonna do to you, you gorgeous man," John whispered, drawing back. "Just you wait." 

John scooted backward so his body framed between Sherlock's lean thighs. Bracing himself on his arms, John levered himself over Sherlock's body and bent his head so he could brush his nose against Sherlock's sternum, inhaling deeply as he did so, which made Sherlock squirm in response. John chuckled as he followed the motion with a slow, sensual lick, before dragging his tongue sideways to focus on Sherlock's nipples. Sherlock shuddered at the contrast presented by John's hot mouth and the shocking coolness when John blew gently across the damp trails his tongue and lips left behind on his fevered skin. His earlier apprehension was vanishing under John's ministrations at the speed of ice melting under the local sun.

"John," Sherlock whined as John's thumbs and fingers made another teasing pass at his nipples. "Hurry up!"

"Be still, you," John ordered, a hint of the army captain appearing in his voice. "I'm enjoying this."

After lavishing equal attention on Sherlock's nipples, John moved south and spent several long minutes playing with Sherlock's belly button. He sucked at it, pressed kisses to it and slowly circled the rim with the tip of his tongue before dipping in, clearly mimicking another act. At the same time, John kept brushing his chest lightly against Sherlock's still-clothed erection in an impressive, yet frustrating display of upper body strength. "Patience," John reminded him with a laugh, as Sherlock cursed and writhed underneath him. "I could spend hours doing this to you." John pressed a final kiss to Sherlock's navel before beginning to nuzzle his way downward again, his warm breath ruffling the sparse auburn hairs that marked Sherlock's treasure trail. He paused long enough to catch Sherlock's eyes before rubbing his face against the straining denim covering Sherlock's length.

The pressure and friction felt fantastic.

"John, please!" Sherlock begged, breathing hard, his transport already producing endorphins in response to his archived memories of just how unbelievably _good_ John's mouth would feel around him...

"Please what?" 

"Oh for God's sake, John!" 

"Bossy," John mock-scolded, rubbing his cheek against the bulge in Sherlock's trousers. "Hand me a condom from the nightstand, would you?" 

"Wha?" Sherlock asked, fully aware of how inane he sounded. Clearly heightened arousal had a stupefying effect on his mind's abilities. 

"A condom, Billy," John repeated patiently, the smile in his voice making it clear he found Sherlock's confusion endearing, rather than off-putting. "We're not going any further without one...and I don't want to have to stop once I get started." 

Sherlock pulled open the aforementioned drawer and fumbled through the contents while John busied himself by undoing Sherlock's belt and zip and easing his jeans down his legs. John's look of approval and husky "nice" as he caught sight of Sherlock's silk pants made Sherlock grateful that he'd opted for them. 

After several long moments, Sherlock's searching fingers detected two square packets that he recognized as the condoms John favored amongst the jumble of plastic bottles, at least one vibrator, nitrile gloves, and what felt like a pack of wet wipes. 

"Got it?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow, one hand still resting on Sherlock's straining length. 

"Here," Sherlock huffed, thrusting two of the packets at John. 

"Cinnamon and spearmint," John read aloud. "Any preference?" 

"Spearmint." 

With a cheeky wink, John tucked the chosen condom into a back pocket and bent his head to nose at Sherlock's still-clothed cock. He inhaled audibly, visibly appreciating the musk and scent of Sherlock's arousal. "Mmmm...you smell delicious...I could just eat you up…" John purred, one hand cupping and massaging Sherlock's balls through their fabric barrier, while his other hand wandered over Sherlock's chest, alternately pinching and rolling his nipples. 

"John!" Sherlock groaned, past caring that he was begging. "Please! Enough teasing!" 

John chuckled, a sound that combined lust and satisfaction as he slipped his fingertips under the elastic band of Sherlock's pants and tugged them down. Sherlock helped by arching his hips so John could remove the last piece of clothing, leaving Sherlock naked. 

"Jesus, you're gorgeous," John rasped, pulling the condom out of his pocket and tearing it open. At Sherlock's pointed glare between John's mouth, his throbbing cock, and back again, though, John paused and gave him a reproving look. "Just hold your horses," John mock scolded. "I'll get there when I'm ready." 

"Then get there _faster!"_ Sherlock demanded, arching his hips and making his erection bob. He didn't care if he sounded like a bratty child. At the moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to feel John's lips wrapped around his throbbing length. He whined as John smoothed a palmful of warm lubricant over his erection, followed by the condom and the firm grip of John's left hand. 

"Lift up," John ordered, tapping one of Sherlock's knees, and then sliding between Sherlock's legs. "Feet on my shoulders," he continued. "Now," he continued rhetorically, setting up a steady, toe-curling rhythm with his hand "where were we?" 

"Oh God, _John_ ," Sherlock gabbled as John's mouth _finally_ enveloped him in tight heat. John merely hummed in response—there was no mistaking the satisfaction in the tone—and the vibrations in addition to the play of John's tongue over his glans were enough to make stars detonate across Sherlock's field of vision. He could feel the excess lubricant from the condom running down his balls, combining with his sweat, making everything slick and cool...until they were wrapped in John's warm hand. 

_"Johhnnn,"_ Sherlock moaned as John rubbed and kneaded and sucked and growled. John didn't confine himself to just the obvious areas, he pressed kisses to Sherlock's femoral artery, the inside of his knee, and the crease where Sherlock's bum met his thigh. He laved his tongue over Sherlock's inguinal crease and rubbed his knuckles along Sherlock's perineum, repeating certain things when Sherlock gasped and writhed and thrust and swore in response. He wasn't sure when his hands had migrated to John's short hair, but John's encouraging hum made it clear that it was all fine. 

The endorphins, the teasing, the adrenaline, the apprehension of hacking John's files and the sight of John lying between his thighs, visibly enjoying himself all combined into a tumult of overwhelming sensation and in an embarrassingly short amount of time, Sherlock found himself coming with a shout. 

He lay there, feeling shaky and shocked, blinking up at the ceiling like a moron while John tied off the condom and disposed of it in the bedside bin. It felt like an entire evening's worth of Guy Fawkes fireworks had just detonated in his head. How was he supposed to concentrate on anything in this fugue of lust? How did ordinary people deal with this? 

The mattress dipped as John laid back down beside him. Even without looking, Sherlock could practically feel the smugness radiating from John's form. 

"You okay?" John asked after a few moments of labored breathing. He reached out and brushed a gentle hand across Sherlock's chest and then frowned. "You're shaking," John observed, rising up and propping himself up on one elbow. 

"I'm fine...just...overwhelmed," Sherlock lied, trying without success to remaster his transport's involuntary reactions. "I...didn't expect my orgasm to be so strong...Or so fast," he continued, rolling over on his side so he could look at John. 

John narrowed his eyes, no doubt observing Sherlock's continued shudders. "Ah...yeah. I can see that. Not that I mind—I thought it was damn sexy. Still, I can see why you might feel dazed. Is there anything I can do to help?" 

The obvious affection and concern in John's voice made Sherlock feel ill, but he ruthlessly suppressed the guilt. Ultimately, the only thing that mattered was The Work. By hesitating, he was allowing emotions to cloud his mind and worse was the knowledge that Mycroft would never let him hear the end of it if he failed to solve this particular case because of _sentiment_. 

"Yes…" Sherlock replied, rolling over so he could face John. 

"Okay," John said, licking his lips and tilting his head to one side. "What do you need?" 

"Give me a minute to catch my breath and then let me return the favor," Sherlock rumbled, deliberately banishing thoughts of Mycroft from his mind before they could impact his arousal and focusing on John instead. 

"You sure?" John asked skeptically, his expression matching his tone. "You don't have to if you don't want to…" 

In lieu of answering, Sherlock lunged. There was a brief, quick grappling match—clearly John had hand-to-hand combat training—but John wasn't actively trying to fight him off and a moment later their wrestling match ended with Sherlock as the victor, straddling John's hips. 

"So...I guess you do like what you see," John observed aloud, looking up with a pleased expression on his face. 

"John, I have been fantasizing about you for weeks," Sherlock confessed, dropping his voice to a husky growl. It was nothing but the truth. Sherlock stared down at the man lying prone beneath him and it was all he could do not to drool the way Bonnie did when she found somebody eating one of Juana's tamales or burritos, (which was frequent, since Sherlock had observed that the foods in question were a common component in the lunches of the ranch hands responsible for managing Candii Ross's cattle herds). John's chest was slick with a thin sheen of perspiration; the tangy, spicy scents of mingled scents of sweat and desire made Sherlock's throat dry with want. He could also feel the throbbing of John's erect cock against his bollocks through the blasted denim jeans that John still wore, and the sensation was enough to make his cock give an optimistic twitch, (his recent orgasm notwithstanding). "I fully intend to reciprocate," Sherlock added, giving John's pebbled nipples a quick tweak before leaning forward to mash his lips against John's. John grunted once, perhaps in surprise, but he quickly parted his lips to welcome Sherlock's tongue. 

Sherlock groaned again. John's mouth was hot and wet and perfect. Experimentally, he shifted so he could grind his cock against John's. John responded with a gratifying buck of his hips and tore his mouth away from Sherlock's to utter a harsh _"Jesus!"_

"Not quite; we discussed this already, John," Sherlock chuckled, slowly laving his tongue across John's throat and down his chest as he cataloged the different tastes of John's skin. A curious lick to John's left nipple resulted in a bitten-off explicative, so he spent several long minutes experimenting with the different reactions he could coax from John's body by alternating the pressure, speed and shape of his tongue. 

"God, Billy," John gasped when Sherlock finally decided he'd collected enough data. With visible effort, John lifted his head enough so that he could gaze at Sherlock with blue eyes that were almost entirely obscured by his pupils. He swallowed, smooth pink tongue coming out to moisten his bottom lip. "Your fucking mouth!" 

"Soon," Sherlock promised, resuming his southward progression. He smoothed his palms over John's sides and six-pack, enjoying how smooth and warm John's skin felt against his own, perpetually-cold hands. John's skin was tanned from the bright Texas sun and he took a moment to admire the contrast between his own pale hands and John's golden-honey tones, before dipping his head to tease the shallow intention of John's navel with the tip of his tongue. 

Shifting again, Sherlock slowly began to undo John's belt buckle and zip, only to be halted by a sun-browned hand covering his own. 

"Hold on," John gasped, reaching up and tugging gently at Sherlock's curls with his free hand. 

"What?" Sherlock snapped, annoyed at the interruption. His fingers gripped John's thighs as if he could rend the fabric obscuring him from his target with willpower alone. 

"Condoms," John reminded him firmly. "And you should put your underwear back on first—it'll reduce the likelihood of accidentally transmitting anything." 

"But I don't even have your trousers off yet!" Sherlock protested. 

"Don't. Care." 

Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath and rested his forehead on the fabric still covering John's crotch. The downright mulish expression on John's face made it clear that there was no point in arguing. "Fine," Sherlock grumbled, rolling his eyes as he reluctantly fumbled for his so-recently-discarded pants. " _There,_ " Sherlock huffed when he was sufficiently covered. " _Now_ may I divest you of your trousers?" 

"Be my guest!" John drawled, stretching indolently across the bed and punctuating his statement with a cocky wink and a wicked grin. 

Sherlock didn't quite growl as he attacked John's fly, but the startled noise that John made it clear that he hadn't anticipated how aggressively Sherlock would remove his remaining clothing. 

The idiot. 

"Budge up," Sherlock ordered, hooking his fingers into the waist of John's jeans and crimson pants and finally, _finally_ pulling the offending garments away and banishing them to the floor where they so rightly deserved to be. 

"Oh now. That's nice. That's very nice indeed," Sherlock breathed, sitting back on his heels to better appreciate the full glory of John Watson. 

And it was glorious. 

The tanned lines of John's Adonis belt led down to a nicely trimmed thatch of cinnamon curls framing John's cock. Sherlock licked his lips and swallowed, his mouth watering in anticipation. John was as gratifyingly large as he'd been rumored to be: a good eighteen centimeters, with a slight bend to the left. And circumcised, which was a bit novel. John's girth wasn't wide enough to constitute an uncomfortable choking hazard, the way an overgrown courgette might, but he was certainly large enough to be a satisfying mouthful. Sherlock lowered his head and inhaled, his eyelashes fluttering in appreciation. John smelled delicious, the astringent odour of his substandard body wash giving way to the scent of sweat and the musk of arousal. 

Helpless to resist, Sherlock nuzzling at John's skin and hummed, enjoying the way the fine blond hairs felt against his cheek. When John made a pleased noise, Sherlock extended his tongue to lick delicately at the crease where John's hip met his thigh, earning himself another wonderful noise. Sherlock raised his head up to watch John as he analyzed the taste. The flavour of John's bare skin was a bit salty and a bit tangy, like lime, or perhaps tamarind. He liked it. With another hum, Sherlock ducked his head lower, intending to tongue John's scrotum to see if the flavour was stronger there, but a gentle hand in his hair forestalled the attempt. 

"Nope. That's not as safe," John scolded. "Come back up here," he ordered with a gentle tug against the back of Sherlock's skull. 

With a disappointed huff, Sherlock contented himself with a final nuzzle against the thin skin, enjoying the way the thin hairs tickled his nose before returning his mouth to John's. Not that it was exactly a hardship: John was a marvelous kisser, after all. 

"What flavour do you want?" John asked when they finally came up for air. 

"Cinnamon," Sherlock capitulated with a sigh. "And do you have any lube?" 

"Lube, different types of condoms, gloves, wet wipes, dental dams...you name it. I have a whole kit." John shimmied further up on the rumpled fabric of the duvet and pulled open the drawer of his bedside table with flattering haste. There was a rustle of stiff fabric, followed by the sound of a zipper being pulled. "Do you want a pair?" John asked as he rummaged around. "I've got a couple of different types in case you're allergic to latex." 

"Different types of what?" Sherlock asked, accepting the proffered condom and the bottle of lubricant. He set the bottle off to one side—easily grabbable, but not likely to pop open and spill in the meantime—and began tearing open the condom packet. 

"Gloves," John explained, pulling a pair out and waving the items in question for emphasis. "I don't mind if you do." 

"I'm not allergic to latex and that depends entirely on you," Sherlock replied as he concentrated on rolling the condom down John's considerable length. He met John's puzzled expression and cocked an eyebrow in challenge as he accepted the gloves. "How do you feel about prostate stimulation? Either external or internal?" 

John blinked twice in apparent surprise. "I feel just fine about prostate stimulation, but why do you—" 

"Good," Sherlock interrupted, sliding a glove onto his left hand—the hand he used for fingering, as he'd alluded to during his earlier serenade. Before John could say anything else, Sherlock abruptly leaned forward and wrapped his lips around John's cock. 

"Oh FUCK!" John swore, his head hitting the pillow with a thud. 

Sherlock chuckled, even as he concentrated on massaging John's frenulum with the flat of his tongue. It was arguably a bit of a stretch for 'Billy' to have mastered the art of fellatio, but if John pressed, he could easily come up with a believable explanation: perhaps he practiced on bananas or ice lollies or that horrible breaded and fried sausage-on-a-stick that the Americans were obsessed with… 

"Oh Jesus, that's gorgeous, Billy," John gasped, trying—and failing—to suppress a thrust of his hips. 

Sherlock pulled off with a pop before John could accidentally choke him. "Hold still," Sherlock ordered, wrapping one hand around John's shaft to better secure the condom. He placed his other hand against John's hip, effectively grounding him as he renewed his oral assault. Sherlock uttered a throaty growl as he savored the way John filled his mouth. 

He hadn't done this in years—not since Victor—but the mechanics of fellatio were hardly difficult: heat, suction, a steady rhythm and an avoidance of teeth. The difference was that John's reactions turned the experience into an interesting experiment, rather than a chore to be dutifully performed. Tracing the corona of John's shaft with the tip of his tongue garnered a huffed laugh while wrapping his lips around the glans and sucking resulted in a pleased sigh. A firm squeeze with his right hand around the base of John's cock made John groan, and brushing the fingers of his left hand against the outside John's thigh resulted in John spreading his legs in non-verbal encouragement. 

Sherlock sucked hard, his cheeks hollowing as he bobbed his head slowly up and down, making sure to press his tongue against the throbbing vein along the underside of John's cock. It was tempting to move faster, but the vengeful part of him wanted to repay John for the sensual torture he'd endured. 

Especially since John was making such fantastic noises. 

He could feel John's pulse against his tongue through the thin protective barrier that sheathed John's cock, the rapid tempo putting him in mind of Mozart's _Rondo alla turca_ and it gave him a fiendish idea. 

He slowly moved his left hand down, caressing John's thigh with the back of his hand until he could cup John's sac. He carefully rolled and kneaded the delicate organs inside in a duplication of what John had done to him, before releasing them in favor of rubbing his fingertips against John's perineum in a slow massage. 

"Oh _Christ,_ " John gasped, bending his knees and tilting his pelvis up slightly in mute demand. His breath was coming in harsh pants and when Sherlock glanced up, he could see the rivulets of sweat plastering John's fine hair to his forehead in seductive tangles. 

Sherlock hummed in agreement, keeping his head movement steady even as he began to languidly tap out the fingerings for the Bach's _Partita No. 1 in B minor,_. He took his time, sliding and pressing over John's perineum and simultaneously feeling for the beginning of John's bulbocavernosus muscle, while John panted and swore above him. Sherlock smiled to himself as he listened to the increasing desperate pitch and vulgarity of John speech. John had expressed his approval of prostate stimulation, but, (based on the complaints he'd overheard through the years) far too many people lacked the necessary anatomical knowledge to properly externally stimulate the prostate and ended up pressing too far forward... 

_Ah. There._

"OHJESUSFUCKINGCHRIST!" John howled as Sherlock firmly pressed his fingertips against the nub of tissue while simultaneously swallowing around John's cock and taking it to the root. John's hips bucked violently and it was all Sherlock could do not to slam his nose against John's pubic bone. He pulled back slightly but didn't release his prize. Instead, he continued to rub his tongue against the bottom of John's shaft, gentling him through the aftershocks until a grunt of complaint and an uncoordinated hand wave indicated that John had had enough. 

Sherlock disposed of the used condom and gloves in the bedside bin and laid back down on his side so he could study John's face. John was staring dazedly up at the ceiling as if he were having trouble conceptualizing its existence. After several long minutes, John tilted his head with visible effort to meet Sherlock's gaze. 

"I can't remember the last time I came that hard," John began, his voice coming out thick and slow as if he were having trouble getting his tongue to cooperate. 

"That's not surprising," Sherlock rumbled, making no effort to hide his satisfaction at John's confession. "Quite a few people are ignorant of the merits of both external and internal prostate stimulation." 

"Mmmph," John agreed, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. 

He lay there, giving Sherlock ample time to study his features in repose while the sweat on their bodies cooled and their breathing and pulse rates slowly evened out to something approximating 'resting'. This close, Sherlock could see the fine lines feathering John's eyes and the small scar above his left eyebrow that was probably a souvenir from some childhood misadventure. More worrying, though, was the faint crease of suspicion between John's eyebrows. _Oops_. He might have overdone it a bit in his effort to show off. 

"Speaking of that, I thought you said you didn't have a lot of experience," John finally continued, confirming Sherlock's private fear. John's tone was somewhere between puzzled and accusatory, as though he weren't quite sure what to make of Sherlock's skills. 

"I don't," Sherlock lied, his mind frantically coming up with a believable reason for his abilities. 

"Then where the fuck did you learn to give head like that? Nevermind your knowledge about prostate stimulation?!" 

"Honestly, John," Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. "Just because I'm not particularly sexually experienced doesn't mean I'm ignorant. There are all sorts of women's magazines out there with advice and tips for performing oral sex—not to mention practicing on lollipops and ice cream bars. As for the latter, you're a vet, so you are fully aware that it's a fairly routine practice to palpate the rectum of stallions to feel for abnormalities in their accessory glands. While prostatitis in stallions is rare—unlike humans—it does occur and it can cause significant pain if left untreated. Male horses can also develop prostate cancer. While I don't routinely perform rectal exams on geldings or stallions to diagnose underlying medical problems that are manifesting as behavioral issues, it is nevertheless a skillset that I possess. I am also fully capable of detecting the changes in tissue density that would mark the termination of the penile bulb that makes the prostate externally stimulable. It is a simple matter to extrapolate the anatomical differences between male humans and equines to maximize the pleasure of one's sexual partner." 

It was utter tosh, of course, but he was counting on John being too-full of postcoital hormones to actually analyze his words. 

John spent several minutes staring at Sherlock, not saying anything, just blinking, and Sherlock wondered if perhaps he'd gone too far, but then John burst into delighted giggles. 

"Ladies' mags and anatomy textbooks?" John repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Christ, you're nuttier than a Field's pecan pie factory. Com'ere, you madman," he ordered with a chuckle, giving Sherlock's hand a gentle tug. 

Sherlock gave him a doubtful look. "Are you sure I won't squash you?" 

"Now you're worried about that?" John asked wryly. "It's fine...unless you're not one for cuddling…" 

"I...don't know," Sherlock replied. Victor certainly hadn't been, voicing numerous loud complaints about Sherlock's cold hands and feet, but the hopeful expression on John's face made it clear that he would be disappointed otherwise, perhaps even call an end to their evening. Which could upset his evening agenda. And—if he was being honest with himself—the prospect of a post-coital cuddle up to John was not unpleasant, so when John gave his hand another encouraging tug, Sherlock went willingly. He draped himself across John's chest and entwined their legs, slotting one slim thigh between John's two muscular one and laying his head back down so that his right cheek was resting against John's sternum. From this position, he could hear the steady thrum of John's heartbeat and the rush of air to and from his lungs. 

"Ahh, that's better," John announced, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's shoulders while his other hand crept into Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock sighed, savoring the feeling of John's bare skin pressed against his almost-entirely nude form and the gentle play of John's fingers over his scalp, even as he concentrated on slowing his heart rate. 

"Billy?" John asked after several long minutes of petting Sherlock's curls. 

"Hmmm?" 

"You said you speak Latin, right?" 

"I do." 

"In that case, what's the Latin term for attraction to amazing butts?" John asked, reaching down to give Sherlock's bare arse a gentle pat. 

"Pygophilia," Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his cheek against John's chest the same way a cat would rub their chin or jaw along something to declare 'MINE!' John smelled wonderful: a bit like sweat, a bit like Sherlock and a lot like sex. 

"Hey now, that tickles," John giggled, gently nudging Sherlock's nose away from his oxter. "What about getting turned on by listening to great music?" 

"That's melolagnia," Sherlock replied, pulling back with reluctance. "Though I personally prefer the French term 'frisson' which means 'aesthetic chills,' also known to some researchers as a 'skin orgasm'." 

"And curly hair?" 

"Trichophilia." 

John huffed a soft laugh. "Good to know my new fetishes have names then," he commented, giving Sherlock's arse a final stroke before pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head and laying back with a contented sigh. He yawned. "Remind me to talk to you about borrowing my violin later, okay?" 

"Okay," Sherlock whispered, too shocked by the implied offer to do more. Was this a bribe? A ploy, or sentiment? Was John extending the offer as some sort of courtship gesture? John had mentioned the possibility of following 'Billy' back to Montana, but who offered to move to be with somebody after only a few months? It made as much sense as agreeing to become flatmates with somebody after a single, two-minute meeting. 

With effort, Sherlock forced himself to set his unsettling emotions aside and concentrate on the change in John's gradually slowing breathing rate that would indicate John was on the cusp of sleep. 

"John?" Sherlock eventually asked, deliberately making his voice sound sleep-fogged. 

"Hmmm?" 

"Let me up? I need some water. I'm parched." 

"Sure," John yawned, removing his arms from where they had wrapped around Sherlock's waist. 

Sherlock slid carefully out of the bed. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure John's eyes were still closed before slipping the single tablet of Rohypnol out of his left front jeans pocket. Humming softly under his breath, Sherlock padded to the kitchen, stopping to pick up their abandoned wine glasses on the way. 

He held them both up to check the contents level. John's glass was about a quarter of the way full. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mentally calculating John's estimated body weight and the amount of alcohol he'd consumed during the course of the evening against the amount of flunitrazepam the pill on the counter contained. After a moment, he nodded once in satisfaction at the answer he'd arrived at. 

Still humming, Sherlock filled a tumbler of water from the tap, being careful to make enough incidental noise so that John know where he was. He downed half of the contents on his way back to the bed before dropping the pill into the remaining water and giving it a through swirl it to make sure the pill was completely dissolved. 

"John?" Sherlock said softly, gently shaking John's shoulder. "Sit up for a sec? I brought back some water in case you're thirsty." 

"Hmm? Oh. Thanks," John mumbled, rousing slightly and accepting the proffered beverage with a sleepy smile. 

Sherlock watched with some trepidation as John drank. There was the chance that John might notice an off taste or some gritty pill residue, but to his relief, John downed most of the contents before politely offering the glass back. "How about you? Are you still thirsty?" 

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Go ahead and finish it." Sherlock bit his lip, watching as John finished the water and handed the empty glass back. When Sherlock returned from rinsing the tumbler out in the sink, John was laying back down. 

Sherlock paused, studying the silent tableau. In the dim glow of the nightlight, with the way the sheet draped low over his hips, John could easily have passed for the subject of a neoclassicism painting. Perhaps Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres's 'Study of a Male Nude' or maybe François-Xavier Pascal Fabre's 'Gladiator at Rest' if the gladiator in question were blond and bronzed, instead of brunet and pale... 

"I can feel you staring," John complained sleepily, opening one eye and distracting Sherlock from his silent reverie. 

"Sorry." 

"How 'bout you come back to bed?" John suggested, his voice low and encouraging. "We've got hours yet." For emphasis, he lifted the sheet up to create a warm inviting space that Sherlock knew would smell wonderfully of John. 

With a smile that he hoped looked natural, Sherlock did so. It would take anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes for the Rohypnol to take effect he calculated and he didn't want John to be suspicious in the meantime. 

"Hey, you're shivering," John pointed out as Sherlock slid in beside him. "You cold?" he asked, pulling the sheet up over Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock lied, concentrating on the warmth that John was radiating and stubbornly ignoring the cold pit of guilt that was metaphorically devouring his insides. He shifted slightly so he could look over his shoulder at John's concerned expression. "Besides, you can warm me up...right?" Sherlock asked, infusing his voice with seductive warmth. 

"Yeah," John replied, his worried frown replacing itself with a promising leer. "But you'll have to give me a bit first—I'm not seventeen anymore!" 

"Ugh. Seventeen-year-old boys are horrible," Sherlock huffed, his brain supplying a sudden torrent of unpleasant memories of the idiotic, sex-obsessed sixth form boys he'd shared dorm rooms with. 

John nodded understandingly. "Yeah. I can see that," he replied, his mind clearly imagining a teenage Sherlock being mercilessly bullied. He wasn't wrong. "In the meantime, how do you feel about cuddling some more?" 

"Cuddling is...good." 

"Fantastic," John said, scooting closer so that the entirety of his chest was pressed against Sherlock's bare back. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and snugged him in closer with a satisfied grunt. "This okay?" 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to relax and not squirm away at the tickling sensation of John's fringe on the nape of his neck. 

"Good," John hummed, pressing a kiss to the skin between Sherlock's shoulder blades before falling silent. 

Sherlock waited, mentally running through Max Bruch's _Concerto No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 26,_ as he listened for the downshift in John's breathing patterns that would indicate the Rohypnol was taking effect. He'd made sure that John hadn't drunk much more than the one glass of wine prior to unknowingly consuming the drugged water. The combination of the two drugs was enough to amplify the effect of the Rohypnol, but not enough to put John at a serious risk of depressed breathing or heart rate. Furthermore, if his calculations were correct, the synergistic effect of the Rohypnol/alcohol combination would result in amnesia even if John _did_ wake up while Sherlock was snooping through his possessions. 

Now all he had to do was wait. 

After thirty minutes, Sherlock cautiously rolled over. "John?" When John didn't reply, Sherlock jabbed a forefinger into John's side to see if he'd respond. The vet didn't even flinch. To reassure himself, Sherlock moved John into the recovery position and checked John's pulse. It was slow, but gratifyingly steady, as was John's breathing. 

Swallowing hard, Sherlock slid out of the bed and hurried over to the laptop case he'd observed hanging from the clothes' rack earlier. It took endless moments for the old laptop to boot up. Every beep and chirp made Sherlock tense in anticipation. Finally, the login screen appeared. To Sherlock's surprise, it was password-protected. Typing quickly, he began entering different passwords based on personal information John had dropped: FusilierVets, 3CWatson, RideEmCowboy. None worked. Sherlock grimaced. It appeared he was going to have to resort to the blunt force technique. Fortunately, there was a handy, unsecured guest account for him to use. 

It was the matter of a few moments to convince the computer to grant him administrator access and password control using a combination of forced shutdowns and the shift key. After checking once more to make sure John was still unconscious, Sherlock plugged Jim's present in and began cloning John's drive. While he waited for the files to finish copying, Sherlock did a quick, but thorough search of John's small flat looking for anything else that might be relevant. 

A fireproof box with the key helpfully hung on a ring around the handle yielded a bevy of potentially interesting papers, including letters from a solicitor's law firm, copies of loan documents, John's passport, tax filings, a handwritten list of accounts and their affiliated passwords, several handwritten letters and a miscellaneous assortment of personal and financial records. Scanning everything took longer than Sherlock would have liked, but John never stirred. 

When he was done, he carefully restored John's password (T8lldrink0fW8ter) and removed all traces of his tampering before returning the laptop and the papers to their respective places. He would examine everything in more detail in the morning. After a final check, Sherlock climbed back into bed with the still-unconscious John and wrapped himself python-like around John's warm body. It was a pitiful attempt at self-comfort through skin-to-skin contact, he recognized, but he couldn't bring himself to let go. John was so blissfully hot, a veritable human furnace. Even though he knew his snooping was necessary for The Work, it didn't change the fact that, for some reason, his own insides felt as cold as ice. 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: 12/01/17 *waves at lovely readers* Hello there! Before you start worrying/wondering 'long time no update; is this abandoned?!' rest assured, it hasn't been! I'm working on the next few chapters...it's just taking longer than I anticipated between real life, the crunch of holidays and the kibbens sitting on top of my computer. * I have lots of 'OMFG!' and 'AHHHHHH!' scenes still ahead+ and I thank you all for your continued support! _
> 
>  
> 
> *If _you_ want to be the one to explain to Furry Supervisor et al., why she needs to leave her nice warm bed, then be my guest. I'll be over here. In the catcher's mask. Behind the barricade. And the ambulance.
> 
> +cue evil cackling


	21. Movin', movin', movin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter contains a semi-graphic description of a horse's death, so if the word 'eviscerate' bothers you, you might want to skip past the section where John describes a particularly bad bull-riding wreck.

~*~

"How's he doin,' Holmes?"

Sherlock looked up from the small tarp he was shaking out to see Candii Ross approaching from the direction of the main barns. She had one hand tucked into a pocket, while her other hand slowly tapped the clipboard she was carrying against her thigh as she walked. When she was close enough, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, attempting to read text on the papers, but gave up after a moment. The words were too small to make out, but based on the spacing and colour of the paper itself, it was almost certainly some sort of calendar or rotation schedule. Irrelevant. Bonnie, meanwhile, rose from her spot in the shade and wandered over to greet her mistress, plumed tail wagging.

"He's...doing better," Sherlock began slowly as he finished folding the tarp into a compact bundle and secured it with a bungee cord. He tipped his head to indicate the stallion on the other side of the fence. Devil's Blaze was watching them with both visible alertness, but he was standing more or less quietly instead of running around the corral at a dead run like he would have been doing four weeks prior. "I've successfully desensitized him to the stick and string and have started desensitizing him to me approaching him while making various noises—"

"What sorts of noises?" Candii interrupted, crouching down to scratch her collie's ears. "Who's my good girl then?" she added in with affectionate croon towards Bonnie, while simultaneously keeping her gaze focused on Sherlock.

"Screaming, swearing, screeching, bellowing, popping balloons, firing blanks, blowing a police whistle, howling like a dog, yodeling…," Sherlock began offhandedly as he exchanged his helmet for his hat. "I would have used bagpipes as well, but I left my set of Scottish war pipes back home, along with my tuba. I'm nothing if not thorough," Sherlock replied primly seeing the flabbergasted expression on Candii's face. "Now I'm working on desensitizing him to other stimuli. Today's objective, obviously, was desensitization to tarps."

"And how did that go?" Candii asked dryly as she stood back up, her fingers still toying idly with Bonnie's ears. She tipped her head to indicate the visibly-exhausted stallion. "He looked like he was working ya pretty hard from what I could see."

"Well enough," Sherlock replied with a one-shouldered shrug. "We had a few rough spots, but nothing I couldn't handle. I'll be repeating the exposure several times over the next few days." He didn't mention the throbbing ache in his arms and legs from where he'd been forced to jerk Devil's Blaze around when the stallion tried to run away from him. Or the way that his feet were still sore, despite the extra socks he'd worn. It wasn't important; it was just transport, after all.

Candii pursed her lips as she turned back to watch her horse again. "Huh. Ya makin' any progress on whatever shit he got dosed with in th' first place?"

"I've had more success eliminating substances than determining what agent was used," Sherlock admitted. "But I believe I am making progress. Whatever it was was almost certainly inhaled, which narrows down the field considerably. Consequently, I am focusing my search on a fast-acting agent that can be delivered via the respiratory system."

Candii snorted. "Don't know how that's gonna help ya much. Pretty much anythin' that can be shot up can be snorted or swallered, 'cept maybe paint fumes. Just ask th' cops."

"Not necessarily," Sherlock retorted. "The method of delivery for a substance can have a significant impact on how long it takes to both be absorbed and excreted. For example, a vial of heroin, depending on how it's taken, can take anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes to take effect if it is inhaled, but only seven seconds if it is administered via intravenous injection. It's presented a very valuable clue."

"How so?"

"In the course of my research, I have found at least two other incidents of previously-docile horses suddenly going berserk for no discernable reason. The witnesses to both events describe noticing the change in their animal's behavior over a course of several minutes, not seconds. There was no evidence that either horse had been given an unauthorized injection, nor were there discoloured patches on the gum or tongue that would indicate something had been applied topically for transdermal administration. A swab of the rectum of one horse also came back clear, so it whatever it was clearly wasn't a suppository. Finally, both feed and water samples came back clear. So, something moderately fast-acting that doesn't require physical contact with the animal and leaves virtually no physical trace? An inhaled substance is the most likely answer." He didn't mention the cigarette butt he'd found, or Brenda Tregennis's story about the smoking man outside of Cream Soda's stall just before her horse attacked her. The trick was to give the horse breeder enough information to satisfy her curiosity and convince her that she was getting her money's worth without sharing everything he'd learned. It wouldn't do to undermine his mystique, after all. Nor was there a point in sharing sensitive information that ran the risk of being leaked where the culprit might catch wind of it and vanish accordingly before the case was solved.

"Huh." Candii looked grudgingly impressed. "So what's that mean for my horse?" she asked, batting away a buzzing fly trying to investigate her face.

"Once I successfully isolate the trace elements, I will be able to run a sample through mass spectrometry and from there, perform a cross-analysis and compare it against known drugs. If I get a match, or at least a useful chemical signature, the possibility of successfully locating an antagonist becomes much higher, as does future detection in other samples."

"And how long do ya think that's gonna take?"

"Once I obtain a good sample? Depending on my access to a lab and the speed of Blaze's progress, anywhere from several weeks to several months," Sherlock admitted, bending down to collect his water bottle.

"MONTHS!" Candii yelped. "Whaddaya mean months?!"

Sherlock stopped unscrewing the lid to give her an affronted look. "Do you have _any_ idea how many potential doping agents there are? That we have documented? Thousands. Anti-doping agencies are in a continual race to detect new substances as fast as they are created." He paused to take a sip of water. "I have every confidence I will be successful," Sherlock continued, rubbing the back of one hand across his mouth to dry it, "but it will take some time. Fortunately, I am a genius, so I expect it will go faster than most."

Candii's expression made it clear she was not pleased, but she didn't protest further. "What about figurin' out who might be behind it. Any luck on that?"

"The only encounter I have had that was remotely suspicious was with a rodeo clown named Fizzy Simpson—he wanted inside information about your bucking horses. I refused, of course. When I mentioned the encounter to Edith, she said that he tried to do that with all of your staff."

"He has, the shifty-eyed bunco," Candii said with a disgusted grimace. "Edith reported as much to me. And just as well for you that you didn't take him up on it."

"Of course I didn't; I'm not a moron," Sherlock replied was a sneer. "I took the liberty of mentioning the encounter to Detective Donovan. She said she'd look into it. She also implied that she might have some other potential suspects to investigate," he added. The last bit wasn’t strictly accurate, but it didn’t hurt to pacify aggravated clients. Mycroft had taught him that much.

"Oh?” Candii asked, looking surprised. “Who?"

"I don't know; she didn't say," Sherlock murmured evasively. “She only mentioned that she’d received new information from an unnamed source.”

Candii made a contemptuous, sniffing noise. "Huh. Ah’ll admit that ah don't much care for the fact that yer talkin' to her, but I guess it don't matter cause I ain't hidin' anything. Ah only hope that damn Kitty Riley and the rest of those PRESS and SHARK fanatics are some of 'em. They'd love nothin' more than ta shut me down. Meanwhile, focusin' on the important stuff—" Candii punctuated the segue with a jerk of her thumb, "—is he gonna be ready for competition again anytime soon? I've got rodeo organizers that want him bad."

"No, not anytime soon," Sherlock confessed, "but I am reasonably confident that he will no longer need to be euthanized as a threat to humans."

"Well, that's somethin' at least," Candii muttered with a sour expression. She banged her clipboard twice against her thigh in a show of irritation. "Right. I'll call Mac over at Range Days and tell him Blaze won't be there. Good thing I've got some other fine horses."

"Speaking of fine horses, there's one I want to stable here for the foreseeable future." Sherlock was careful to keep his tone casual, hoping to garner immediate acquiescence, but his efforts were in vain as Candii Ross turned to give him a chary look. It was similar to the ones that a much younger Mycroft had frequently given Sherlock as a child when Sherlock had still been in the habit of cajoling his elder brother into accompanying him on adventures to explore abandoned collieries and mines dotting the landscape of his childhood home...usually right before he put a kibosh on the situation by reporting Sherlock's ambitions to Nanny.

"Whose horse?" Candii asked without preamble. "Not one of yours, is it?"

"No. It's a police horse that is likely to be euthanized for behavioral issues otherwise," Sherlock replied opting to provide the minimum amount of information. The less she knew beforehand, the less likely she was to object.

"I see," Candii replied, countering with a sardonically-raised eyebrow. "Why, exactly, do ya want to bring him here? An' no cagey pussy-footing, Holmes. I've been 'round long enough that I can spot it a mile away."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed, reluctantly acknowledging that he'd been temporarily beaten. "Captain Lestrade's horse is the only other surviving animal that has shown the same symptoms of whatever drug was given to Devil's Blaze that caused him to initially go berserk. New Scotland Yard's likely to be put down unless he can be rehabilitated. As I mentioned earlier, I have not yet successfully managed to isolate whatever compound was used, but part of that is due to the fact that until now, Devil's Blaze was the only animal to escape being euthanized after being dosed. It is possible to detect substances in keratin long after traces have vanished from blood and urine samples, but only if the subject in question remains alive long enough for the hooves, hair, or nails to grow out to a sufficient length that will permit testing. Scotty is the second equine that I am aware of that has been exposed to the mystery drug and is also alive. Ergo, the larger the sample population I have to work with, the better my chances of determining the root cause so I can effectively correct the issue."

Candii Ross raised a single eyebrow. "Let me get this right," she drawled. "You wanna bring another crazy psycho horse _here_ because ya think it might help you figure out what's wrong with Blaze?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, trying not to let his impatience show. Why were people so insistent on ignoring his expertise?

"And where, 'xacty, do you plan on puttin' the cop's horse?"

"The quarantine pen adjacent to Blaze's," Sherlock replied. "Scotty's current on all his shots, he's well habituated to other horses and he's also been gelded, so he's not likely to challenge Blaze. There is also the off chance that both of them will feel safer if they know there is another horse to help keep watch for danger—similar to what bachelor bands do in the wild."

Candii frowned, the clipboard thudding against her thigh in a steady tattoo. "Fine," she conceded after several long minutes. "It's on your head, though. Anythin' else I should be aware of?"

"I'll be gone all day next Saturday investigating a rodeo that is known to be a target for activists and saboteurs." It was a declaration, rather than a request for permission. Mycroft had been the one to teach him the trick of taking advantage of habituated social conventions towards acquiescence in the face of declarative statements. It was especially effective on individuals used to taking orders.

Candii merely folded her arms and raised one eyebrow. "Oh? Ya are now?"

"Yes."

"And which event would that happen' to be?"

"The AGRA Finals, up in Amarillo."

An expression of disgust briefly flickered across Candii's features, though it was quickly smoothed away. "Why?" she drawled instead. "It ain't an event I've ever been contracted for."

Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward in aggravation, wishing that he had a cigarette. Why couldn't people be bothered to think? "I was invited by John Watson," he said snippily. "There's also the fact that PRESS and SHARK both have organized protests for the rodeo via social media. Weeks ago, you informed me that Kitty Riley has long sought to bring down the Triple C. If sabotage by animal rights activists is the root cause of Devil's Blaze's behavior, then it seems only logical to stake out events they might target in hopes of either catching them in the act or elsewise procuring useful evidence."

A disbelieving snort greeted Sherlock's pronouncement. "I think yer feet are on fire and your butt's starting to burn," Candii Ross told him bluntly, "but it ain't my business who yer datin'. So long as you don't get yer fool self killed, ya can go."

~*~

Sherlock stepped out on the porch of his cabin frowning as he rubbed his gritty eyes with one hand while the other maintained its death grip on the mug full of sugary, caffeinated sludge that was masquerading as coffee. It tasted terrible, not exactly surprising, considering it was brewed from pre-ground, frozen beans. Irene (the snob) would be horrified, but it was still a stimulant, and since he'd burned through the last of his stock of patches _and_ fags last night, he'd resigned himself to the fact that beggars couldn't afford to be choosy.

Cracking another yawn, Sherlock glanced down to check his watch. It was early yet for him, but John had told him to be ready to go when he pulled up, which was why he was standing on his porch instead of sprawled out on the bed processing data or tolerating a catnap to let his transport recover. Sherlock grimaced as he took another gulp of the cup's contents, his other hand automatically drifting up to make a fist in his hair and tug as he allowed his attention to drift to his most recent verbal sparring match with Detective Donovan—the reason for his current series of all-nighters.

The whole situation bothered him.

He didn't much like Donovan, (which was hardly unusual; there were very few people he actually liked from a personal standpoint), but unlike the majority of idiots he encountered, he could at least respect her. She was intelligent, methodical, a stickler for procedure and absolutely committed to upholding her sworn oath as an officer of the law in the discharge her duties. In that respect, he had to give her credit for bending the rules slightly and working with him.

But he found her flaw of concentrating only on the evidence directly in front of her while failing to study the situation as a whole seriously aggravating. She was guilty of _seeing_ , but not _observing_ , as Mycroft had so condescendingly repeated to Sherlock's younger self countless times when they were growing up. It didn't make her a bad detective, just...limited. The same as almost every other police officer he'd dealt with, Sherlock thought idly as he scratched at a mosquito bite on the back of his neck.

On the one hand, he could certainly understand Donovan's argument for her continued suspicion Candii Ross, especially in light of her background in insurance fraud combined with the equine murder cases she'd been studying. Donovan had been trained to look for the obvious solution—follow the money and look at potential motives. From Donovan's viewpoint, Candii Ross was still the suspect who had the most to gain if Devil's Blaze was killed. In that same vein, John Watson remained the most likely person behind the actual drugging based on his proximity, his skill-set, and his poor financial situation. He'd argued—again—that the possible significance of Sterndale's bizarre misdiagnosis shouldn't be ignored, but Donovan had countered his argument by pointing out that she'd had yet to uncover any other instances of expensive horses dying mysteriously while under Sterndale's care.

As a concession, Donovan had agreed to follow-up on Fizzy Simpson and a few of the stock contractor names Sherlock had supplied, but Sherlock understood her hesitance (even if he didn't agree with it). There was no good reason to spend precious time looking for theoretical culprits working behind multiple screens when, in real life, most premeditated crimes were committed by ordinary people for the sake of greed, revenge, love, or a combination of the three. As far as Donovan was probably concerned, complex plots by dastardly villains and secret societies were the stuff of novels and the types of telly programs Mrs. Hudson watched with such avidness. Admittedly there was the occasional case of somebody being clever enough to hide their tracks or work through several intermediaries, but most members of the criminal class were idiots.

Sherlock took another sip from his mug, still frowning in thought as he turned facts over in his mind. In a way, Donovan's continued focus on Candii Ross and John Watson both reminded him of nothing so much as a runaway horse with a bit caught in its teeth: dangerous, determined, and virtually impossible to stop safely unless the rider knew what they were doing.

He'd learned the hard way that there was nothing to be gained by jerking on the reins or shouting. It only made the horse run faster and increased the risk to the rider. An experienced horseman knew it was better to ride the horse until the horse calmed down somewhat and then concentrate on gently getting the horse to stop so that they could be redirected to the desired behavior. Or, in this case, anticipate Donovan's arguments and preempt them by systematically laying out all of the reasons why John could not be the culprit and provide substantiated arguments as to who the real criminal was. He'd spent the night re-reviewing the mess of data he'd copied from John's computer in an effort to explain the confusing muddle of innocent and incriminating documents and search history John's files contained, but so far, his efforts had been in vain.

He'd found copies of John's enlistment and discharge papers, along with some old probate papers for the estate of Catherine Watson. It didn't take a genius to deduce that the deceased had been John Watson's mother; the fact that John had been appointed as the estate's executor had been an obvious clue. From what he could discern, the entire estate had been liquidated and the majority of the funds had been paid to various medical and credit agencies. There had been virtually nothing left over for Catherine Watson's two surviving heirs.

He'd also found multiple bill stubs and threateningly-worded letters demanding prompt payment for past-due account balances. Most of them had handwritten notes listing a date, the amount paid and a confirmation number, but not necessarily what they had been for. His curiosity had been piqued and he'd tallied up the outstanding balances on the most recent statements and the resulting number had made him frown in confusion: why was John indebted for the equivalent of over one hundred and ninety thousand pounds? There was nothing evident in John's standard of living that could possibly have cost several hundred thousand US dollars. He'd searched rigorously but uncovered no sign of gambling habits, illegitimate children, or propensity for expensive jewelry, fine wines, five-figure whiskeys or drugs.

It certainly explained why John lived in a closet of a flat and was so habitually careful with his pocket money, though, Sherlock mused as he drummed his fingers on the porch railing. Between the loan repayments, credit card bills and rent, John was used to scraping by on a little under two hundred pounds a month. Sherlock had looked at petrol prices and noted the difference in the odometer of John's vehicle between the first and second trips they'd taken. Based on his calculations and what he'd observed so far, John probably logged several hundred miles in his truck every month, which meant a good portion of his monthly income was probably spent on petrol and insurance for his vehicle, leaving maybe one hundred dollars each month for food and utilities. No wonder John had jumped at the chance to work for Candii Ross. Even if most of the money Ross was paying him went to the clinic where John worked, it had still resulted in a noticeable increase in John's take-home pay.

It also helped explain why John had devoted himself to bronco and bull riding, Sherlock thought as he sipped at his mug of sludge, his eyes wrinkling at the corners in concentration. The relatively modest entry fees of fifteen or thirty pounds sterling could result in several hundred dollars in American currency. The larger events had higher entry fees, but the prizes were also larger. A rider who made it to the final rounds could easily earn several hundred thousand dollars in winnings. According to some of the other sites he’d reviewed, even a rider who was ranked at 35th place in the world standing reported almost $50,000 in income. Which helped explain the sport’s appeal to individuals no-doubt suffering from acute testosterone poisoning. Recalling Donovan’s mention of John’s credit history, he'd taken the time to cross-check some of the larger, irregular deposits listed on John's downloaded bank statements against searches for John's name in conjunction with various bronco and bull-riding competitions. There had been several transactions where the amounts of the suspiciously-large deposits matched payments on some of the loans, effectively countering Donovan's argument that John was accepting cash bribes.

Unfortunately, there were plenty of other damning files on John's computer, starting with the spreadsheet tracking the names, breeders, and owners of multiple high-ranking bulls.

Sternsdale's name appeared several times on the list, which wasn't surprising; the lobby of Sterndale's clinic was virtually a shrine to the man's success with breeding rank bulls. Another spreadsheet contained notes listing rider injuries caused by especially aggressive animals. Not falls or accidentally dislocated limbs, no, the injuries that John noted were far more graphic: rider fatalities after being kicked in the head, cases of bulls stepping on fallen riders and crushing their chests, riders who required extensive facial reconstruction surgery and incidents where bulls had attacked stunned riders lying on the ground. John had also been bookmarking online articles about bull-riding wrecks for some reason.

And then there'd been John's internet search history.

Sherlock's lips thinned at the memory. God help John Watson if Donovan managed to get her hands on his computer. The man clearly didn't know how to cover his digital tracks, Sherlock remembered with a pained wince. John's browser history and bookmarks had been absolutely _full_ of information about equine doping, ways to 'scrub' drugs from different types of samples, research on cross-species reactions to different medications, known poisonous plants and their ranges, newspaper articles about racehorses testing positive for methamphetamines, emails to other vets seeking information about oddly-aggressive bovines, and copies of the PBR's newly-developed protocol of testing bulls for abuse of anabolic steroids. _He_ knew that John was simply trying to solve the mystery of the aggressive bovines he'd been investigating. The PBR had only started testing top-level bulls for steroids in the past two years, so studying the well-documented field of research devoted to equine doping for potential carry-over applications was a perfectly logical behavior...but any prosecutor or barrister, or detective worth her or his salt would view it as evidence of John's guilt and act accordingly.

Sherlock set the quarter-full mug aside and crossed one arm across his torso in a stretch, a small smile of satisfaction creasing his lips as he did so. Fortunately, for the Work he didn't just see, he _observed_ which was how he'd determined two key things during the course of his investigation: the first was that the case was much bigger than he'd initially anticipated. The strange symptoms and the nebulous link to the African racehorse's death that Mycroft had pointed out demonstrated that. The second was that unless John was secretly an exceptionally clever criminal, Donovan's theory was wrong and John and Candii Ross were both innocent. Given the lack of conclusive proof, John's general nature, and Candii Ross's clear commitment to her horses, Sherlock was rather convinced that it was the latter, rather than the former. Granted, his current theories were still too nebulous to prove, but he had confidence he would solve it.

He was a genius, after all.

Regrettably, (despite what he'd implied to Candii Ross), he was still no closer to identifying the chemical agent used. He'd been so busy between working with Devil's Blaze, arranging to get New Scotland Yard transferred and investigating John that he hadn't had time to get back to Anderson's lab and follow up on his latest test results, let alone start a new round of experiments. At this rate, he was going to have to resort to finding some sort of assistant, Sherlock thought grouchily as he picked up his mug of quasi-coffee.

The excited barking of Bonnie and O'Malley and the accompanying rooster plume of dust heralded the approach of a vehicle, effectively distracting him from his musings. He reached up to shade his eyes, confirming that yes, it was John Watson arriving to pick him up. Not that there was any doubt as to the identity of the driver, Sherlock noted, considering that John's approaching velocity in the Humvee was what a saner person would term as 'reckless'. He ducked inside briefly to fetch his hat and jacket and dump the half-empty mug in the sink. By the time he'd returned, John had already skidded to a stop and was hopping out of the cab with far more energy than anybody had a right to possess at such an early hour.

"Mornin' Billy!" John chirped, tipping his hat with the hand that wasn't holding an oversized, aluminum travel mug. The words 'Veterinary medicine: where every day you're reminded that you like animals better than people' were emblazoned on the side, which was a sentiment Sherlock could fully agree with.

"You are entirely too chipper," Sherlock complained, trying to stifle a yawn as he approached.

"I take it you're not a morning person?" John teased.

"Obviously not," Sherlock snapped, punctuating his response with an exasperated eye roll. "If it weren't for the fact that you'd insisted on picking me up at such a godawful early hour, I'd almost certainly be asleep right now."

John tilted his head to one side, his forehead creasing in confusion as he stared at Sherlock. He glanced down at his watch and then looked at Sherlock again. "What do you mean godawful hour? It's gone ten."

"Exactly."

John pursed his lips consideringly as he looked Sherlock up and down. "Ah...that explains it...I should have seen it from the start, what with your hair and cheekbones, your preference for the night—not surprising considering how easily you burn. The way you flip your jacket collar up should have clued me in from the first."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock demanded, thrown by the non-sequitur. "What do my cheekbones and coat collar have to do with anything?"

"The fact that you're clearly a vampire," John replied with a straight face. "You know...absurdly pale, tall, dark, mysterious…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock began with an exasperated huff. "I'm not—"

"Sexy as hell," John continued cheerfully, undeterred by Sherlock’s eye roll. "But, since this is a bit too public for any sort of sucking to take place, how 'bout some coffee instead? Black, two sugars, right?" John asked, extending the travel mug.

"Oh! Thank you. I'm impressed you remembered," Sherlock admitted, feeling oddly surprised and touched. He reached out and wrapped his hands around John's offering, sighing gratefully, his sensitive nose registering the scent of fresh-roasted Arabica beans. Sherlock took a healthy sip and let out a soft groan of pleasure as the complex flavors exploded across his tongue. The coffee was was hot, sweet, and very, very strong.

Just the way he liked it.

John shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Nah. I grew up doing periodic emergency coffee runs for Harry—especially when she was in law school. Her order was always something complicated enough to make a Starbucks barista cry. Yours is pretty much identical to mine—except that I don't take sugar. You got everything you need?" John continued, tilting his head to indicate the jacket Sherlock had folded over one arm. "Water? Sunblock? Cash?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied as he climbed inside the cab. He was torn between annoyance that John thought him an idiot and pleasure that John was so obviously concerned about his wellbeing. It was similar to how Mycroft behaved, but minus the condescending attitude his older brother consistently adopted. "And even if I didn't, I'm relatively certain that you have enough sun cream and water for the two of us stashed away in one of your sundry medical kits."

John's response was a rueful laugh. "True. In that case, let's hit the road. I want to get there early."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, obediently fastening his seat belt in response to John's pointed look. "Unless we have to get out and walk, it shouldn't take us more than thirty minutes to get there. Surely the rodeo doesn't start for a few hours yet?"

"It started at eight," John corrected, reaching up to adjust his rearview mirror. "It's true that the bronco competitions don't start until this afternoon, but it'll probably take us a while to find a place to park, plus I have to pick up my registration and drop off my gear. The sooner I get that taken care of, the sooner I can spend the day feeding you proper rodeo grub and showing you a good time."

"Oh," Sherlock replied, blinking in surprise. He hadn't expected that at all. "You're competing? Not working?"

"Yep and nope. Problem?" John asked, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows.

"Ah...no. Not at all," Sherlock stammered, swallowing hard. In fact, the only problem that he could foresee was the possibility of an inconvenient erection in public. Watching John compete via the YouTube videos he'd found had been impressive enough to result in several masturbatory sessions. The thought of watching John ride in person was enough to make his throat dry with anticipation.

"Good," John confirmed with a small smile that made it clear that he was easily following Sherlock's thought process. John fell silent as he concentrated on navigating up the hill and out to the highway, swerving occasionally to avoid the native fauna.

Sherlock meanwhile used the opportunity to drink his excellent coffee and study John's features for information. The bags under John's eyes were a bit more pronounced than they'd been the last time Sherlock had seen him. Late nights? Stress? A combination of the two? John's jeans weren't new, Sherlock noted turning his attention to John's wardrobe. They were well-worn, a bit faded...a working pair, rather than a "best dress" pair designed to impress, such as the ones John had worn on their prior dates. John's boots were still the same. There was no useful information to be gleaned from the plain white vest John wore under his blue chambray shirt, though the chambray shirt itself had a small tear in one sleeve that had been mended with a Cushing suture. Work clothes, or at least clothes that John didn't mind damaging, which was sensible, considering the propensity of cowboys getting thrown off their animals and onto the dirt floor of the arenas, Sherlock decided with a mental nod.

"So tell me some more about this rodeo we're going to," Sherlock prompted after John finished merging with the traffic barreling down the motorway. "You said it was put on by the AGRA association. How does it differ from PRCA and PBR-sanctioned events?"

"A couple of different ways," John began, signaling to pass a car that was doing the speed limit and accelerating past it. "Pro Rodeo and Professional Bull Rider events—as you can probably deduce—" John continued, placing a teasing bit of emphasis on the word "—from the names are predominantly about money; the prizes, the advertising, the entry fees, you name it. The American Gay Rodeo Association is an organization made up by a bunch of different regional gay rodeo associations and their main focus is having fun and helping raise money for different charitable organizations."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "Such as?"

John shrugged. "It varies from state to state—even from chapter to chapter, but the Trevor Project's a big one, P-Flag's another. So are AIDS services, especially ones assisting underserved communities. I know that New Mexico's association is a big supporter of breast cancer coalitions and shelters for victims of domestic violence. The TGRA has donated over two million dollars to AIDS support services and women's health projects since they were first founded in '84."

"TGRA...Texas Gay Rodeo Association?" Sherlock posited aloud.

"Yep," John confirmed, hitting his turn signal so he could pass a sedan that was apparently driving too slow for his tastes.

"So, which style of bronco riding are you competing in today?" Sherlock asked when John had finished changing lanes. "Saddleback or bareback?" The research he'd done online reported that John had done both, so it was a fair question.

"Saddle. I don't bareback. Anymore, that is."

Sherlock pursed his lips. He could tell from the faint crinkle in the corner of John's eyes that John had made some reference to sex, but he chose to ignore it. Honestly, was John even capable of holding a conversation without resorting to innuendo? Sherlock wondered as he shifted to face John more fully. "Are there any other events you're planning on competing in?"

"Nah. Not really."

"What about bull riding?" Sherlock pressed, trying to subtly redirect the conversation so he had an excuse to discuss John's search history. "I've heard that it's even more exciting and challenging than Bronco riding. It seems like something that would be right up your alley. Do you have any experience with that?"

"A bit, yeah," John said with an easy shrug. "I actually started off riding bulls before I switched to riding Broncs. The ride itself is a bit different, from broncos but it gave me some good experience."

"How so?"

John pursed his lips. "Okay...well, I'm sure you're aware of how broncos generally buck down the length of the arena and then tend to run away in a more-or-less straight line as soon as they buck a rider off?"

"Yes," Sherlock drawled, trying not to roll his eyes. "They also tend to continue bucking, which makes them difficult to approach, hence the need for a pickup man to get the rider off safely. I _am_ an equine professional, John."

John blew out a breath. "Right. Sorry. So, not to state the obvious, but...bulls are a bit different from horses—shut up—" John chided when Sherlock gave a derisive snort accompanied by an eye roll. "You're the one who wanted to know, the least you could do is not be a dick about it."

"...Sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now, as I was saying, bulls don't tend to run away. They also don't buck the way most horses do; more often than not, bulls buck while spinning in a circle, so it takes a slightly different set of skills to keep from getting thrown. A good rider has to have good balance and quick reflexes, excellent timing and a lot of strength. The best riders study their opponents and train accordingly, especially since some bulls always turn to the right, or maybe lower their head as a tell. Of course, it also helps to be short and have big balls."

"Were you any good?" Sherlock asked in an arch tone, knowing full well it was a rhetorical question.

"Very good," John informed him, his tone rife with assurance. "Just ask some of my former rides."

Sherlock glanced sideways and pursed his lips at the blatantly-sexual quip. John caught his eye and a moment later the two of them were laughing, Sherlock's baritone chuckle a counterpoint to John's snickering giggles.

“You are incorrigible,” Sherlock mock-scolded.

“Maybe, but I’m also damn good,” John returned with a wink.

"Considering how good you claim to be, did you happen to make a lot of money winning?" Sherlock asked when the laughter had faded away. The question immediately garnered a reproachful look from John, forcing Sherlock to revise his tactics. Apparently, the topic of money was a sore one, which he should have anticipated, considering his knowledge of John Watson's financial state. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I meant just in general," Sherlock explained, adopting a wry expression as he waved one hand vaguely in the air. John didn't look convinced. "It's just...I've had to listen to a bellyful of bragging from Ms. Ross about how valuable her bucking stallions are to stock contractors and how lucrative they are for winning riders," Sherlock continued. "I've also heard plenty of gossip from the Triple C's staff about my predecessor, Joe Straker, and his uncanny luck for picking sleeper bulls with high payouts. I have no frame of reference and I'm inclined to dismiss it as bragging...unless it really does pay that much more?"

John shrugged, his shoulders relaxing as he tilted his head from side to side, clearly debating the merits of Sherlock's explanation. "It can be pretty lucrative for the winners," he said slowly. "Pretty much everybody who's in the industry has heard about riders like Paulo Lima or Jess Lockwood, the nineteen-year-old up-and-coming rookie who made over a hundred grand for thirty-two seconds of work last year. I'd be hard-pressed to think of another blue-collar career that would earn you that much for less than a minute's worth of work, which is one of the reasons bull riding is so popular."

Sherlock flicked an eyebrow. Well, that was certainly interesting, especially considering the amount of debt that John was carrying. "So why did you stop?" Sherlock asked aloud, being careful to keep his tone curious, rather than accusatory. "I imagine that your deployments would have ensured that you remained physically fit and from our earlier conversations, I can't imagine you would have resented the necessary time spent on the road traveling to different events."

John shook his head. "Nothing like that; I quit because it got too dangerous."

"Too dangerous?" Sherlock repeated with a skeptical snort. "John, you habitually drive in excess of the posted speed limit, work in a medical field that requires you to treat patients who out-mass you by a significant amount, who are also fully capable of shattering your skull or a limb with a single blow from their hooves. You ride out-of-control horses for entertainment and are voluntarily dating me. And, if that wasn't enough danger to sate your adrenaline addiction, you willingly enlisted with an employer who no-doubt deployed you to locations where you could easily have gotten shot at in addition to being attacked by an angry hippopotamus—"

"I did get shot," John interrupted in an exasperated tone. "I've even got a scar on my thigh to prove it—"

"Then in that case, how is riding bulls any more dangerous?" Sherlock demanded, trying—and failing—not to imagine what could have happened if John _had_ been shot somewhere else. "Am I supposed to believe that bull-riding was a previously-sedate pastime?"

John gave a rueful snort. "Dick. Bull riding's always been risky. I mean, two years ago, a guy named Aaron Roy ended up partially paralyzed after getting bucked off and then getting his back stomped on by Gretzky. Another rider named Will McKinnon almost died last year after taking a hoof to the chest. Those are just the worst ones I've seen or heard about first-hand. The papers are full of other wrecks. You can google them if you want more. And, of course, everybody's heard of Lane Frost's death—"

"Wait, whose death?" Sherlock interrupted, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

John gave him a disbelieving look. "What? _How_ can you not know who Lane Frost is? There was even a movie made about how he died!"

"I work with horses, John, not uncastrated bovines," Sherlock reminded him tartly. "And I’ve already told you that I have little time or interest for things outside of the Work."

"Fine," John huffed, exasperation evident in his tone. "Lane Frost was a pro bull rider during the seventies and eighties. A lot of people idolized him. He was the 1987 world champion, after all. His death was kind of a freak accident. He'd just finished a successful ride on Taking Care of Business at the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo when the bull charged and got him in the back with one of his horns—this was before riders started wearing padded vests, by the way. The impact broke several of Lane's ribs, one of which severed his abdominal aorta. He collapsed and died right there in the arena."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his mind flashing back to the different files and spreadsheets documenting terrible wrecks he'd found on John's computer. He'd seen pictures of gored bullfighters from Spain. It was easy enough to extrapolate the amount of force that could be generated on an area slightly smaller than the diameter of a pound coin by a running, 1,500-pound animal. It made him slightly sick to think of the same thing happening to John. "Oh," was all he said aloud.

John shrugged. "So yeah, bull riding isn't exactly a safe sport at the best of times. Torn ACLs, MCLs, and PCL ligaments and fractured cervical vertebrae are pretty much par for the sport. There's a reason there are always several rodeo clowns and bullfighters on hand. Not to mention ambulances. It's real easy for a rider to get hung up and trampled or charged once they're on the ground. Hell, it even happened to me a couple of times. I didn’t mind because the prize money was so good, but when it started getting dangerous to the point that it wasn’t... _fun_ anymore, I decided the money wasn’t worth the risk. I switched to horses and I haven’t looked back since.”

"So what do you think is causing it?" Sherlock asked, his mind flashing back to John’s compilation of research.

"Money," John replied as if that explained everything. "Well, that and greed. It's changed the whole nature of the sport."

"I don't follow," Sherlock lied. "How so? And what does money have to do with bulls?"

John pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he visibly pondered how to best answer Sherlock's question. "How much do you know about how bull riding is scored?" he finally asked.

"I know the premise is the same as bronco riding," Sherlock replied, puzzled by John's conversational tangent. "I know the rider does their best to stay on an out-of-control animal for the requisite amount of time. Both the animal and the rider are scored individually on their performance. The totals are added up and the highest qualifying ride wins the division. Bovines and horses are both prey animals. They both buck, they both flee danger. As far as I can tell, the only real difference between the two events is that bulls outweigh horses by several hundred pounds." It was, of course, a gross simplification, but it wouldn't fit his character as a horse whisperer and rodeo novice to say otherwise.

"Aside from the fact that bulls are prey animals like moose are prey animals, that's...not a bad summarization," John replied, clearly trying not to grimace at Sherlock's answer. "But not...strictly accurate."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He hated being told he was wrong. Even when he was feigning ignorance for a case. "Enlighten me, then," he demanded. "And what do moose have to do with anything? I thought we are talking about bulls?"

"To answer the second question first, moose are fucking dangerous if you surprise one—especially a momma with a calf," John explained. "An Alaskan army buddy of mine once described moose as being only slightly less dangerous than a bunch of bored Rednecks and/or Aussies on an isolated military base. After having been deployed a few times with both, I have to agree with him. Hell, the Aussies were the ones that decided a few years ago that bull riding wasn't hard enough, so they had a bucking bison competition."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He'd believe it. He'd encountered more than a few Australians during the course of his career. From what he'd observed, they were the living embodiment of 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' with the addendum of 'and if I am going to die, then it's going to die too!' How else was there to explain the continued existence of a population that lived on a continent inhabited by snake-eating centipedes, cheerfully swam in bodies of water that were home to some of the world's most dangerous venomous and/or poisonous creatures, and voluntarily ate Marmite? "And to answer my first question?" he asked aloud instead since firsthand knowledge of Australia wasn't exactly the sort of experience 'Billy' would possess.

"Right, sorry." John licked his lips. "You see, it used to be that people rode domestic animals—Herefords and Anguses from a sale that had enough of a jump-and-spin to save them from becoming hamburger. Out of those, there was maybe a small percentage of them were naturally powerful enough and ornery enough to become rank bulls. Bull riding's never been an easy sport, but in the early nineties, a good rider could cover—that means successfully ride—oh, maybe seventy-five percent of the bulls they drew."

"Go on."

"But now, pro-bull ridings is multi-million dollar sport. Because there's so much money involved, between the prizes and the sponsorships and everything else, a lot of pressure was put on the breeders to come up with even better bulls. Like they do with horses and show dogs."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he attempted to follow John's reasoning. "By horses, you mean...deliberately mating animals with desired genetic traits in hope of producing an offspring with exceptional speed or conformation?"

"Exactly," John replied with a firm nod. "Only instead of speed or bug eyes, they're cross-breeding rank animals to produce bulls that are bigger, faster, stronger and a lot more highly-conditioned than they were twenty years ago. ABBI--that's American Bucking Bull, Inc.--has something like over 180,000 animals in their pedigree database. Bull-breeding's expensive, but it can be worth it. It used to be that the biggest payday a bull might earn would be $20,000 if it was selected as the world champion bucking bull. But now? Since bull-riding's gone pro, elite animals can earn a _lot_ of money for their owners."

"How much money?" Sherlock interjected.

John shrugged. "I'm not a breeder myself, but from what I've heard on the circuit, proven buckers can be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Hell, I was at a rodeo a while back and I overheard Sterndale bragging to another breeder about one of his yearling bulls winning him almost $70,000 in the annual ABBI Futurity competition for four seconds of bucking. And that was just one bull. Like you saw in his office, he has a lot of elite animals under his belt."

"Oh."

"So, yeah. There's a lot of money to be made, and the bulls have become a lot more exciting to watch, but the tradeoff is more riders are getting seriously hurt. It's not just the big rodeos, either," John continued grimly, giving Sherlock a sideways glance. "Tougher bulls are everywhere. Hell, they're even popping up at junior events. I know that there are kids with dreams about making it to the pros, but there is something seriously fucked up about a kid who isn't even out of middle school getting mucked out by the type of bull I was riding in college!" John concluded, his voice rising in anger.

"Well that's understandable," Sherlock retorted with a dismissive hand wave, carefully calculated to raise John’s ire and (hopefully) provoke an unfiltered response. "Racing is the same way. Honestly, John,” he continued, his tone rife with scorn. “It is statistically likely that participation in any dangerous sport will eventually result in serious injuries, if not outright fatalities. The risk over time increases exponentially with each competition, no matter how careful the rider is—"

"Look, Billy," John interrupted, giving Sherlock a look that made it clear that he considered Sherlock's response more than a Bit Not Good. "There’s bulls, and then there's bulls. I know I just finished explaining why breeders and stock contractors look for the toughest, fastest, biggest, most exciting animals they can get their hands on...but there's a world of difference between a bull that's exciting to watch and one that's fucking dangerous to ride. Just ask my buddy, Bill.”

"What happened to him?" Sherlock asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar, which meant it was probably something he had come across in his research, but once again, it wasn't something 'Billy' would know.

John gave him a suspicious look, before shaking his head in resignation. "Right. Not a rodeo man. Bill is—or was—one of the top-ranked riders by the PBR before his wreck on Romp 'n Stomp."

Sherlock folded his arms and waited, using his silence and a single raised eyebrow to compel John to talk. After several long moments, John took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I've seen a lot of wrecks over the years—" John began in a detached voice, a coping technique Sherlock recognized that was frequently used by empathic professionals to distance themselves a particularly gruesome case. "I've been in a few too. I've seen lots of injuries, the occasional violent death when an animal landed wrong, a couple of cases where a rider got into real trouble...but Bill's was...bad."

"Define 'bad.'" Sherlock caught the wary glance John sent his way and huffed in exasperation. "Oh for God's sake, John! I'm not squeamish. Hell, my housekeeper routinely complains about the samples I keep in my refrigerator." The last was an appeal to John's dark sense of humor in a vain attempt to lighten the mood.

"Considering what you told me you keep in your flour jar, I'm not surprised," John muttered in an undertone. "Right," he said, catching the pointed look Sherlock sent him and clearing his throat. "So...bad. Bad as in three seconds into his ride, Bill took a horn to the head and went flying. Soon as he was on the ground, the bull started worrying at him with his horns. It's a damn miracle the bullfighters managed to get Bill out alive."

"Oh."

"And if that wasn't bad enough, Romp 'n Stomp kept going, charging at the bullfighters, attacking the clown barrel, mowing over the guys on the ground,” John continued, his voice switching back to the detached tone. “One of the pickup riders tried to intervene, but that's when Romp 'n Stomp turned around and gored his horse. There...wasn't any way to save it; I had to euthanize it right there in front of the crowd."

John didn't go into further detail, but he didn't need to. Sherlock had already seen the incident John had described, though he’d been less concerned with the bull rider and more interested in watching the horse and John’s actions at the time. It had been as a result of a particularly sharp exchange he'd had with Donovan over the suspects. Donovan had argued that the PRESS video showed that John Watson was fully capable of ruthlessly executing a horse. He'd argued that it was entirely plausible that Kitty Riley was manipulating the footage to support her cause and had gone searching afterward, looking for the original, unedited version in an effort to prove his point. It had taken some extensive digging on the sorts of websites and forums that were favored by the macabre, but he'd eventual found what he sought.

And more.

John's summary of the event as 'bad' was a master of understatement. The heavily-edited PRESS video had shown the spasming horse lying on the ground, John Watson running over, pulling out his SIG-Sauer and shooting the horse point-blank in the forehead, just underneath its forelock. The clip was short, contained minimal gore and was exactly the sort shocking video could be easily disseminated by the masses through social media, which was no doubt that Kitty Riley was counting on.

The original, unedited video shown a much grimmer and far more complex story.

The horse hadn't just been gored, it had gotten hung up and had been eviscerated by the attacking bull's horns. The horse's subsequent panicked run around the arena before collapsing had only made the situation worse. John's quick use of a pistol had been a mercy indeed: there was no way to save an animal that had lost the majority of its internal organs. He'd shown it to Donovan and to her credit, she hadn't even blanched. She'd even acknowledged that he had a point about Kitty Riley which he'd counted as a victory, though it hadn't been enough to entirely disprove her suspicions.

"Was Romp 'n Stomp an especially egregious bull?" Sherlock asked aloud.

John pursed his lips and made a sound of disagreement. "Not by a long shot," he replied with a shake of his head. "Romp 'n Stomp is famous for being a bastard—he could give the now-retired Bodacious a run for his money, but...he's not the only one by any stretch of the imagination. Bill’s near miss was what made me realize how...mean the bulls have gotten.”  
"Mean," Sherlock repeated skeptically. "You're arguing that a bovine is capable of abstract, premeditated and malicious thought?"

"Look, Billy, dogs and horses aren't the only animals with distinct personalities," John snapped, an annoyed expression on his face. "Bulls have them too. Now some bulls will toss a rider off and then calm right down. Mr. T and Red Rock were both popular with competitors during the eighties because they had reputations for not trying to hook thrown riders or go after them. Red Rock even liked to go for victory laps after he'd thrown somebody."

Sherlock made an affirmative noise, feigning understanding at the meaningless names John was relaying.

“But over the last few years, it seems that the rankest bulls are actively out to kill anybody who aims to ride them.” John's lips thinned even more. "And it's not just me that's noticed it; I asked around the Texas and Turquoise circuits and a couple of vets and more than a few riders and bullfighters reported the same thing. Riders are getting killed. That's why I've been studying different reports about bovine attacks. I have a theory that it might be some new, mutated form of Bovine spongiform encephalopathy since aggression and hyper-responsiveness to certain stimuli are among the known symptoms. I've even created a few spreadsheets trying to track everything."

"Fascinating. What possible leads do you have?"

"Nothing much,” John admitted with a disgusted grimace. I've noticed a slightly higher percentage of fatal wrecks from bulls that either belong to Sterndale or were sired by one of his bulls. Not that that really means anything, since breeders will cheerfully pay anywhere from a couple hundred to several thousand dollars for a straw of bull semen—Like Bushwacker's—if they think it'll produce a champion worth several hundred grand."

“What, specifically, are the breeders looking for?”

“Speed, strength, aggression...really just anything that’ll make a bull harder to ride. There are whole databases that breeders comb through, trying to put together the perfect animal.”

"Well, inbreeding can cause a magnification of both desired and undesired traits. Look at the bulldog, or worse yet, the pug," Sherlock pointed out in his most logical tone. “Not to mention the Arabian abominations that some horse farms are creating.”

“Bad?”

“One of the so-called ‘perfect’ colts they have been bragging about has a face so dished that it looks like an animated movie horse, a trait that has almost certainly resulted in breathing issues,” Sherlock replied with a sneer.

John made a disgusted face. “Maybe, but there’s a world of difference between mutations that result in an animal that’s plain ugly and one that’s potentially psychotic. The pitbull's reputation comes to mind. So does the chihuahua’s. I hate treating them.”

“A chihuahua? Really John?” Sherlock drawled, not even bothering to disguise his amusement.

“Laugh all you want,” John told him darkly. “I’d rather perform another emergency tracheostomy on a horse and incise its Streptococcus-infected guttural pouch than deal with one of those furry little bastards...But that's enough doom and gloom," John added, clumsily changing the topic as he turned off onto an exit ramp. "We're about ten minutes out, so you should probably start preparing yourself."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, intrigued. "Do you anticipate interesting horse behavioral issues?"

"Nah, just that it's probably not what you're used to. You'll see what I mean when we get there," John promised with a sassy wink.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> *waves at all the lovely readers* I'm on Tumblr as ["DulcimerGecko" if you want to point out a possible typo, or simply wander over and say "Howdy!" My tumblr is also where I post excerpts from upcoming chapters if you want to get a preview of what's next.](http://dulcimergecko.tumblr.com/)


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